War of the Saints
by cactusx33
Summary: After the Syndicate and STAG are defeated, a new problem arises. A massive civil war threatens to engulf the Saints, turning friends against each other in a final battle to decide the gang's future. Strictly M for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1: The Plot

**AN: In this, I wanted to go for an 'edgy' feel for this fic, in contrast to the cartoony style of The Third. Not angsty (I hope) but in a different vein to giant sword dildos, Gatmobiles and riding a tank through Loren Square, blowing the shit out of everything. Not that that isn't fun though! **

**The protagonist, just to get an image, has a default cockney voice and has no name, just being referred to as 'the boss'. I know it's common practice to give him a name, but I thought it was more fun to keep it as enigma as they do in the game. Also, he's default Caucasian, only with the slick exec haircut. I can never be bothered adjusting my avatar's face to an extreme fine point. **

**Anyway. For the sections set in Britain and HMP Belmarsh, I wanted to go as authentic as possible on the language and terms. If anyone finds it difficult to read, please mention in reviews. In fact, that reminds me, please review! And enjoy.**

**Chapter 1**

Viola DeWynter had never adjusted well to not getting her own way. It was a personality trait that had lasted throughout her early years, Harvard and service to the Syndicate. It had clawed at her fiercely; when Loren died, she'd planned for her and Kiki to rise to power, but that damn Killbane had gotten in the way. Now, she was in the Saints, and that raging id that demanded power seemed to be showing no sign of cooling down.

She supposed she shouldn't look badly at her place in the gang. She had been rewarded for turning against the Syndicate; she had a regime of her own, as well as all the organisation's resources. The others at her level, Zimos, Angel, Oleg and Kinzie, didn't seem to mind not possessing ultimate power. They saw the Saints' power structure as a necessary thing. Viola, with the same single-minded ambition that impressed Philipe Loren, as well as countless professors at Harvard, saw it as a hindrance. The structure relied on three people; a _triumvirate_, to quote the Romans. Just from the top there was Pierce and Shaundi. Pierce was fair with everyone, even an enemy turncoat, but he'd rather face the business end of an RPG than give up an inch of the position he'd worked for and cultivated. Then there was Shaundi. Viola didn't need to tap any phones (bad, bad move, Kinzie) to know that Shaundi neither liked or trusted her. She had a natural slant against anyone that hadn't been with the Saints as far back as Stillwater, even those that had never given any reason not to be trusted. Plus, from what Pierce and the boss said, she had taken a turn for the worse after Johnny Gat's death. Grief, even over someone who appeared to be an emotionally unstable authority figure, could do things to a person.

But Shaundi wasn't the wild card. Oh, no. That dubious honour went to the man at the top of the theoretical pyramid. What made Pierce and Shaundi the easy ones to deal with was the fact that Viola could read them. The boss, on the other hand, was a question mark. She only knew a handful of facts about him; he was somewhere between twenty five and thirty, he was British with a strong, rasping accent crafted by years of smoking Marlboros. Like any sociopath, he had the logical mind to lead the gang but in combat situations was violent and unstable. Neither Viola or anyone else knew the basic facts about the man to classify him in any way: his name, his background, et cetera.

The answer came from a place she could never expect. It was a habit of hers to get her news from alternative sources; the press in Steelport was vulgar at best, filled with tidbits about Nyte Blade, pictures of local party-hard celebrities and the filler the masses liked to dose them selves up with. CNN was always a positive, as well as the Liberty Tree over in Liberty City. Even Stillwater, the city the Saints had fled, had informed news. But if she was hard-pushed, her favourite sources came from the United Kingdom. The BBC had never served her wrong.

It was a cold January evening when she saw the video that would change things forever. The others were at the penthouse, drinking and celebrating their success. Viola was laying low, staying out of the cold and avoiding the social enclosure of the gang that she often found stifling. She was on the BBC news, when the link to a video caught her eye.

_**'Ten years on, the Green Park Murderer still defies justice'. **_

She clicked the link with interest, expecting to be greeted with a lurid murder mystery, full of shots of forensic teams and coroners. What she got was an old photograph of a man in a suit. He was middle aged and looked important.

"This," read the reporter's narrative overlay, "is Colin Francis. The former CID Chief Inspector was shot dead ten years ago in Green Park. It is believed he was taking a shortcut. The killer fled the scene, but was partially identified. This is a sketch from testimony by the witnesses present."

The screen changed, and a rough sketch of a man was displayed. He wore a dark bomber jacket and a god, but his face was clear. It was a remarkably good sketch. Out of sheer curiosity, she paused the video and studied it closer.

Then, she got the faintest sense of déjà vu . She had seen the killer before. At first, it was a loose, difficult-to-place feeling. She cycled through all of the faces she had collected in her visual memory, trying to match his even slightly. After a few moments, she growled in frustration. It was probably just a resemblance. After all, how many British killers did she know?

_One_, whispered a voice in the back of her head. _Just one_.

In an instant, she remembered exactly where she had seen the face before. It was an old, stained photograph she had caught sight of once, on a shelf in the Saints' headquarters. Two men were in it, posing at a bar in Stillwater. One was Julius Little, the late founder of the gang, and the other was a lieutenant of his. Several weeks after the photo was taken, a yacht explosion had left that lieutenant alive, but without a face.

* * *

><p>"Incredible," said the dark-eyed man as he studied the two pictures. The 'before and after' of the boss's facial reconstruction was remarkable, and Viola was half expecting him to push the second one back, disputing the likeness.<p>

DCI Jack McGraw had intimidated her as soon as he had come into her apartment. He was part of the London CID, which Viola assumed was some sort of Vice and Homicide office. His eyes tore a hole through her, and there was an icy determination in every word he spoke. After she contacted him, he had taken a red-eye flight from Heathrow only precious few hours ago, but he looked alert as ever, dressed in a dark overcoat and a shirt and tie.

"It's him, alright," he said, with a relieved tone that seemed to detract from his reserved persona. "Jesus. Ten years I've waited for this. Ten fucking years. It never got any easier."

"You knew the victim?"

"Grew up together, Colin and me. Thick as thieves. Tackled some of the worst London had to offer - the Clerkenwell Crime Syndicate, Kenneth Noye, Muslims in Finsbury Park. He was married to my little sister. She's a widow, now."

"All because of my boss?"

"That's right," he said. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. His lighter had an engraving of an eagle on it, and the letters CPFC were engraved below in an italic font.

"Oh, there's no smoking in here," Viola said, quickly.

"There is now," he said, blowing smoke in her direction. She considered challenging him on it, but decided against it.

"Now, the way I see it is, you're trying to punish this geezer," said McGraw. "Why don't you dobb him into the local Bill? He's committed, what, one 'undred and fifty murders, low estimate? That's a fast track to the electric chair. If I take him back to Blighty, he'll be in the nick, but he'll live."

"Ah, but he'll be close to the city, even if he's on death row. I want him taken out of the equation. Somewhere he can't run the Saints' business remotely. An ocean's far enough."

"Fink we understand each other," said McGraw. "I'll tell you how this will go down. I know a couple of geezers over in NYC. They'll start 'eadin up now. We get him out of the country back to London to avoid arseing about with extradition. I'll tell the higher-ups I found him hiding out in a squat in Deptford. He won't disagree, cause if he even mentions America, they'll 'ave him back here, waiting to face the chair. Then you can do what you need to do. Keen?"

"Sounds great," said Viola, smiling at the thought of taking over the Saints. "I'll note down his schedule."

* * *

><p>The move wasn't made until a week later. The bounty hunters McGraw was planning to use had to pick their ideal moment to strike. Thee was a time when he would have liked to take out Colin's killer with his own brawn, but he was getting old now, and wasn't as much of as physical presence as he had been during the glory days.<p>

They struck when the Saints' limo was travelling between the gang's headquarters and the Safeword penthouse. The Status Quo had a reinforced frame, Viola said, so they would have to hit it hard.

"Is that the car?" Billy Sheenan asked, pointing to the limo as it drove through Steelport's south side. They drove near it in a black Kayak. McGraw had first run into Sheenan's mob in Northern Ireland, where he'd been serving in the army, before he returned to London and joined the police. They originally hired themselves out to loyalists in Belfast, but started to do various merc jobs all over the western world. They had based themselves in New York for the last five years.

"That's the one," Jack responded. "Remember, we gotta ram the fucker until it won't start no more, but not so hard enough so it kills the geezer inside. Got it?"

"Got it," said Billy. He accelerated roughly and made a sharp collision with the limo behind. The windows were blacked out, so they could not see the reaction of the passenger within. They repeatedly hit the vehicle several times, Billy swearing roughly each time. The damned thing had a frame with seemingly unlimited inertia, but it would only take a few more rams to finish it off.

Soon enough, the car ground to a sudden halt. Billy and the others piled out of the Kayak and forced the doors open. Billy put a gun to the limo driver's face, grimacing.

"Get out of here, sonny boy, or I'll feckin' put your face in!" The driver considered his options briefly, then ran as fast as his legs could take him. He turned his attention to the back seat. The boss of the Saints had exited the limo, and he was squaring off to his attackers. He had a bigger physical frame than from before his face changed, and was holding his own well. It took Billy putting a shotgun to his head to quell his aggression.

"Down!" he demanded. "Put your hands up!" He pushed the barrel of the weapon right into the boss's cheek, threatening to decapitate him at a moment's notice.

McGraw got out of the Kayak himself with a pair of handcuffs in one hand and a gun in the other. He smiled with a savage fury that even a relentless sociopath like the boss found himself unnerved by it. He glared up at his captor with an anger of his own.

"I've been waiting to say this to you for ten years," McGraw said, with an eerie serenity. Without pausing, he turned his pistol around to the butt, and pistol whipped the boss aggressively. "You're fucking nicked!"


	2. Chapter 2: The Schism

**Chapter 2**

The Saints' headquarters was buzzing with rumour and concern. Pierce, Shaundi, Oleg, Kinzie, Angel and Zimos were in conference, with the low-level Saint bodyguards drifting in and out of the building, obsessed with security threats.

"He was definitely snatched," said Angel.

"By who?" demanded Shaundi. "The Syndicate? Cops? Stag?"

"We don't know," said Kinzie. "I've hacked into all the traffic camera feeds in the area .We can see a black Kayak driving away, but it's unidentified. Just like the passengers. If it was the police, they would have been driving something recognisable. A Peacemaker or one of those suped-up pursuit deals. The Syndicate would want us to know who had him, so they'd drive cars with colours. These guys? There's nothing."

"We already lost Gat," said Shaundi, angrily. "We can't lose the Chief as well!"

"We'll keep patrols up 24/7," said Pierce. "Any time a fucking black Kayak appears on the radar, we go talk to the driver. Anything looks out of place, we send in the troops. This right here is _our _city, y'know?"

"Where the hell's Viola?" asked Angel. "She should be here."

"She answered her phone," replied Oleg. "She will be here momentarily."

"The moment has come," said Viola, appearing at the door. She was flanked by several elite Saint henchmen with heavy assault rifles. Everyone in the penthouse turned to face them, wondering why she had brought her own security.

"You're late," barked Shaundi.

"I know," she said resolutely, sitting down at the end of the table. "Our boss has been snatched by unknown assailants. We've got nothing on what they want, what their intentions are, and whether he's dead or alive. What we don't need to do is overextend ourselves, spreading ourselves too thin in looking for one car that probably isn't in Steelport anymore." _And I know for a fact it isn't, _she didn't add. "What we need is a show of force. We need to make sure this city knows we haven't been beaten. And more than anything, we need a leader. A strong one. Most of the time, when an organisation's leadership is compromised, it descends into petty factionalism. The Saints are better than that. I nominate myself as a leader."

"Are you fucking retarded?" Shaundi demanded. "There's a chain of command here. Me and Pierce are in charge."

"I understand that's how you think it's going to work," Viola replied, impassively. "But I think our hierarchy needs a slight…recalibration. I'm thinking in the Saints' benefit. All due respect, Shaundi, but Pierce is a diplomat, not a general. And you? You're a loose cannon."

Shaundi had sprung out of her seat and was several paces away from Viola when Oleg, seeing her bodyguards ready to fire, bolted up and restrained Shaundi. Her fury would have seen her mow down anyone else, but not the gargantuan Russian. She spat at Viola.

"Loose cannon? Who the fuck do you think you are?" She relaxed herself, and Oleg let go. "You know, the boss gave you a free pass 'cause you turned traitor on the Syndicate. Now I'm in charge, I think it's time for you to get demoted!"

"But you're not in charge," said Viola, with a coolness that infuriated Shaundi more. "There are obviously some high emotions running around the room. I'll do you a favour. You have twenty four hours to come back here and accept me as your leader. Once you do, all will be forgiven. If you don't, then you're out of the gang. In the meantime, please leave. I have some redecorating to do."

"I ain't going nowhere," said Pierce, standing up and glowering. With this, Viola snapped her fingers. Behind her and the bodyguards, a large gang of Saints appeared. They came up the stairs, and some through the elevator. Pierce glanced to the window and saw that several had arrived by helicopter. They were completely outnumbered. This was, he realised, a coup.

"I think it's in our interest for all our soldiers to be fortified," she said. "The limo will take you anywhere you want to go."

Pierce looked at Oleg, then Shaundi, then Angel. They were outnumbered and outgunned. He could see Shaundi reaching for her gun and going out in a blaze of glory, Butch and Sundance style. Oleg would crush a few skulls, but even that giant couldn't withstand the amount of bullets Viola's men would pump into him. As for Angel, he was fast - but not as fast as an automatic. Then there was Zimos and Kinzie, and they weren't fighters at all.

"Okay," he said, indicating for Shaundi to calm down. "Twenty four hours, right?"

"Twenty four hours," Viola confirmed, nodding. "I know you'll make the right choice, Pierce."

* * *

><p>It was only two hours later when they met at Shaundi's condo. Her ex's apartment, where the gang had first stayed upon entering Steelport, was still occupied presumably by Viola loyalists, and the strongholds would be under heavy observation. Pierce, Oleg, Angel, Kinzie and Zimos had all gone home, but she had texted them. If she announced a meeting while in the car, it would filter through to Viola.<p>

They sat in her living room, drinking coffee and watching the window for signs of spies. It was a full half an hour before they could be satisfied no one was watching.

"She's fuckin' responsible for him going missing," said Shaundi. "I'd bet everything I have on it. I don't know how she did it, or whether she killed him or not. But she fucking did it."

"Either that, or she's immensely opportunist," said Oleg, thoughtfully. "If she was not responsible, then she only had a matter of hours to perform her masterstroke. It's troubling."

"Troubling how?" asked Pierce.

"It means that whether she orchestrated the abduction or not, we are dealing with a strategic mastermind. A Machiavelli. A…Sin Tzu, if you will."

"So, you're saying, we have to stay on our toes?" asked Angel.

"In layman's terms, yes."

"Look," said Shaundi, decisively. "Me and Viola both know that I won't be within a mile of HQ tomorrow. I think she's a crazy bitch, but if you wanna work for her, it's cool. I'm thinking she's gonna send some of her boys to this place, so I'll be at the Broken Shillelagh tomorrow. If you wanna take a stand, meet me there."

"In the meantime, we should get some shuteye," said Pierce. "C'mon. I'll drop you guys off."

"See you guys," said Shaundi. "Hey, Angel?"

He turned around. "Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Sure. Pierce, do me a favour, keep the car running. My apartment's on the other side of town."

* * *

><p>Viola waited expectantly in the Saints' penthouse, looking below for cars approaching or above for helicopters approaching. She had made a rough mental list of who would turn up. Pierce, a lateral thinker despite his occasional bloodlust, would potentially sign on with her to maintain the gang's stability. Oleg was principled but highly intelligent, and she was sure that intelligence would make him realise the benefits of continued employment. She wasn't sure about the others, except Shaundi. Not even with yesterday's display in mind, Shaundi would rather walk over hot coals than kowtow to her. Even if she chose to believe Viola would 'forgive and forget' their past enmity, as well as the disrespect shown yesterday, her demotion would be permanent.<p>

A movement. Down below, a car was being allowed into the underground parking complex. It was a pimped purple Churchill, which indicated Zimos. Sure enough, he appeared out of the elevator a few moments later. She supposed she wasn't surprised; Zimos had less reason to trust her than the others, but he was ruined without his prostitution interests.

"You made the right choice," she said as a greeting. "Grab a drink. I'm sure the others will be along shortly."

"Woman-I-can't-believe-I'm-doing-this," said Zimos in his sing song, mechanical 'tracheotomy voice'. "But-I-guess-it-does-make-sense."

"Sure," she said. "You know, we're going to make this a great organisation. Bigger than the Syndicate or any pretenders could hope to be."

Another car came along, this time a red Solar. That meant Kinzie. Viola found the hacker creepy and obsessive but she was glad to have her on board. She would be to Viola what Mat Miller was to Loren. Cyber warfare, an intelligent person knew, virtually made guns and knives obsolete. It was still useful to have a physical force, but the internet was the battleground of the future.

"Welcome," she said brightly to Kinzie as she appeared through the elevator. "You made the right choice, Kinz."

"I feel kinda bad about it," Kinzie replied, uncertainly. "But it's the logical choice. The Saints saved me from the Deckers. And this is the Saints now. Shaundi probably would have ended up shooting me."

It was the three of them for two hours. They talked about plans to extend the Saints' reach to the furthest corners of the city, and wipe out any remaining Syndicate operations permanently. Viola deliberately avoided talking about what they would do with the Saints who wouldn't toe the line. She figured that Pierce would slink off back to Stillwater, Angel would probably go back to fighting in Mexico and Oleg would go sign up for the FSB. Shaundi would want to hunt some heads before she left, or generally make trouble. When the twenty four hour mark passed at nine in the evening, the Saints would be on constant alert for her, given the strictest instructions to take her alive. Oh, yes. Viola had plans for that insubordinate bitch.

It wasn't until dusk that she heard the soft _ping _of the elevator go. The three of them and the bodyguards turned to the source and saw Angel coming through. He looked somewhat ashamed to be there, but greeted Viola with an informal salute. She smiled, nodding at him to confirm he had made the correct decision. Angel was something of a wild card. Like no one else, he was guided by his principles and honour. Viola figured that he had the same thoughts as Kinzie, that the Saints had helped him get revenge, and that her outfit were now the Saints.

It was an awkward wait for nine to come. The four of them speculated idly who would come up via the elevator next, if anyone indeed would. Viola was satisfied with any outcome; Zimos was one of the best money earners in the gang, Kinzie was a genius, and Angel was a warrior. The gang's new leadership would be well prepared to take on any challenge, be it from police, Luchadores or renegades. She would make the hierarchy more open, recruiting new lieutenants and generals out of hoodlums who had proved themselves. That was one thing the old administration had problems with; to sit at the head of the table, you had to have done something phenomenal. That wasn't how promotion should work.

Eventually, nine rolled around. The twenty four hours had passed. Shaundi, Pierce and Oleg were no-shows.

* * *

><p>"Well, at least she knows exactly where she stands," said Pierce, looking up at the clock in the Shillelagh as it passed the hour. There had never been any doubt in his mind over which side to pick. He and Shaundi had squabbled and jockeyed for position in the past, but they were like brother and sister, and that was what brothers and sisters did. While he respected the 'new school' within the gang, he had always held the two of them up further. Besides, if he stayed with Shaundi, he got to keep his rank. Viola would only make him a minor lieutenant.<p>

"They will be after us now," said Oleg, sombrely. He respected Viola as a formidable strategist, but he would never forget how she had kept him prisoner. Pierce and Shaundi had saved him, and that was all he needed to make his choice.

"I'm surprised with Zimos especially," said Shaundi. "Viola had him as a fucking pony. We saved him. Would have thought a little gratitude was in order."

"It's the smart play," said Pierce. "The Saints control prostitution. Viola controls the Saints. Besides, we don't need him. He couldn't make money for us, the motherfucker can't shoot straight, and he's kinda lazy."

"I guess," Shaundi replied. "I guess the same applies to Angel. He's a wrestler, not a soldier. Kinzie? Much as I hated the little freak, we sure coulda used her."

"This is true," said Oleg. Pierce, knowing his feelings for her, said nothing. The man mountain continued. "I suppose we have to consider our next steps."

"Right," said Shaundi. "Us three are now only link to the Saints how we used to be. That gang Viola controls, they're not the Saints anymore. We are. I say we call ourselves the _True Saints."_

"Got a ring to it," said Pierce. "Okay. What's our agenda?"

"I was thinking about this last night," said Shaundi. "First, we find out what happened to the boss, whether he's alive or not, and we rescue him. Second, we build an army. I can't trust many Saints now, they work for her. The only ones I can count on to be loyal are the ones that came over from Stillwater with us. Thirdly, and this is the most important part, we take that bitch Viola down and reclaim what's ours."

"I like the sound of that!" said Pierce. "What about the others?"

"Leave 'em be," said Shaundi. "They all had reasons to do what they did. I know you might want to, but don't kill Angel, Zimos or Kinzie. Anyone else…"

"Anyone else is fair game," said Pierce. "Got it."

* * *

><p>He was tried under a pseudonym, one of only a select few in British legal history. It wasn't to keep his name out of the newspapers; it was simply because he failed to enter one. He had a completely different face now, and the only images of the old one failed to stand up to facial recognition software due to their age and obscure angle. The bailiff, his barrister, the prosecutor and the judge had all demanded a name from him, and he had shrugged. "Don't have one, guv," was his noncommittal answer. The procedure of getting his name was delaying the start of his trial, so in the end, the belaboured judge agreed to the pseudonym of John Smith.<p>

His trial was (finally) held at Southwark Crown Court on a rain-soaked Tuesday. He wore shackles in the dock, and the damn things were nearly unbreakable. His barrister, a weasel-faced, nasal prick called Butler, had protested that his client wasn't a danger to anyone, but Mister Justice Coleman had been unrelenting. The brief had given him all sorts of tips to looking like a productive member of society; he wore a long, heavy jacket three sizes too big to cover his various tattoos, from the Saints Fleur de Lys, to the well-drawn guns and knives inked all over his arms, even to the small Leyton Orient tattoo on his right shoulder. His hair was combed and styled instead of spiking up.

He'd been held without bail ever since McGraw had shipped him to the London. The copper, not wanting to complicate things with extradition, had chartered a well-fuelled helicopter to make the journey. It must, the boss reflected, have cost him a fortune. He was certainly eager about seeing him go to trial, and while he wasn't present at the interrogation, he was undoubtedly watching proceedings.

The lack of bail meant he had no conceivable way of contacting the Saints; the Saintsbook was perfectly encrypted so the cops or the FBI couldn't read messages, and international calls were prohibited. Air mail was a possibility, but any letters would be read, and he didn't want to give the court anything more it needed. He would have to wait until the trial was finished.

He remembered killing Colin Francis well. It was his first, and you never forgot your first. You could talk to a spree killer or a hitman and they'd tell you the exact same. Francis had been building a pretty watertight case against Dorian Sinclair, affectionately dubbed the 'Cocaine King of Clapham' by the newspapers. If Francis had brought him up against a jury, Sinclair had explained, he'd be deemed a liability by his suppliers in Holland and he'd be ruined. He had been the perfect candidate. A low-level enforcer for men like Sinclair, he had long wished to leave the drudgery of his world behind and move to America. Sinclair, whose business of importing drugs meant he had to be able to fool immigration agents and customers officers, produced the best fake passport on the market.

Killing a cop, especially a CID boy, was usually well off the cards, but Francis hated Sinclair with a passion and was willing to risk hell or high water to bring him down. He'd caught up to the man in Green Park, not two minutes from Buck Pal, and put a gun to his head. He hadn't begged, or pleaded, or offered to drop the case. He merely leaned forward so the barrel was pushed right into his forehead, and said, "come on, you cunt. Do it." So he had blown him away without even hesitating. Sinclair had given him a fake passport that had set of absolutely no sensors when he reached Stillwater, as well as a hundred grand. Francis was the kill that helped him leave England; he supposed it was fitting, it being the one that dragged him back.

He was declared guilty by a unanimous jury vote.


	3. Chapter 3: Enemy Mine

**Chapter 3**

Pierce and Shaundi had taken a ferry out of the city in the early hours of the morning. When they were in charge, they would have taken a Snipes 57 or a chopper. The boss, inexplicably, could fly them incredibly well, despite having no formal flying training. Now, they didn't have the sort of money even to _rent _a helicopter. Even if they did, the risk of the Saints shooting it down was too much to bear.

The ferry reached the mainland at around midday, and they drove onto the open highway. The sky was overcast, and it continually threatened to rain. While Steelport was relatively glitzy and easy on the eye, the less-populated part of the state was dreary, and typically Midwest. Before long, they were driving through endless cornrows, broken up only by the occasional roadside gas station or diner.

It was several more hours' drive before they reached Talbot. It was a rustic, backward-looking one horse town, the type of place where a week can pass without anything happening. They were driving towards what had to be the town centre, and it consisted of a bar on each side, the town hall, a grocery store, and a gas station. Pierce reckoned that a lifetime of city living had turned him into something of an elitist, but he'd rather be an elitist than the type of person that would consider living somewhere like here.

"Where is he?" Shaundi asked. It was one of the first times she had spoken since driving on the freeway. She had been perfectly talkative on the ferry, but had clammed up. Pierce supposed she had a lot on her mind.

"The Deckers said it was a farm on…Vendtner Avenue?" He took a map from the glove box and studied it. "That's about a mile away." He drove on, looking for the turnoff, and seeing it on the corner next to the grocery store. They drove on for around half a mile before the long cornrows of the farm came into view. They found the turnoff, and drove straight to the farmhouse.

"Hey, how you doing, strangers?" said a young man in a strange, unconvincing Midwestern drawl as they got out. He was standing by the old wooden farmhouse, chewing a toothpick. He took two steps forward – and his face contorted with terror.

"Fucking hell!" he said, dropping the accent for a more familiar English estuary accent. "It's you! Please don't hurt me! Please!"

"_That's _Matt Miller?" demanded Shaundi, looking at the youth incredulously. The effeminate Ziggy Stardust makeup was gone. The bizarre outfit was gone. This was a young man with sandy brown hair and a farmer's tan. He wore stained overalls with mud and dust accumulating at the bottom of his denims. The contrast could not have been more bizarre.

"We're not here to hurt you, dude," said Pierce, putting his palms out in a calming gesture. Miller was freaking out. He had sunk into a corner by the farmhouse's decking, and was striking out with his hands, as if to ward them off. Shaundi felt like telling him that if they wanted to kill him, he would be dead already, but she figured that would terrify him even more.

Once Pierce had established that the two of them were not there to kill their former enemy, Miller calmed down. Weakly, he shook their hands and invited them into the farmhouse for coffee. The interior was barely furnished, with the chairs and table in the kitchen all looking like they were made from the same (inferior) cut of wood. The wallpaper was cracking, and the one painting (of the farm itself) looked as if it had been painted by a child.

Pierce sipped the coffee Matt had poured for him. It was bitter. He pretended to appreciate it, and then looked at his host. "Hey, man, I gotta ask…what's with the…everything?"

"My whole essence before was constructed," said Matt, now comfortably using his own accent. "My hair, dyed and waxed enough to lubricate a steel mill. My skin, waxy and pasty from days spent in dark rooms, hacking. Even the technological skill, which I prided myself on so much, was intangible. Cyberspace isn't some alternative dimension, it's a fallacy, created and run by guys like me with to compensate for their evolutionary inadequacies. When I fled Steelport to escape you and your boss, I decided that technology was harming my soul. I became a neo-luddite. This is my farm. I run it completely organically. I pick crops by hand. I make furniture. The chairs you're sitting on are my creation. Even the coffee I grew and ground myself."

_It shows, _Pierce almost said, but he nodded and gave an appreciating sip.

"What about the Farmer John accent?" Shaundi asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Well, folks around here are slightly less tolerant of outsiders than in the big city. They like me fine. They just think I was born in Kansas."

"It was pretty convincing," said Pierce, charitably. "Well, I know you're happy here, but shit, we may as well offer anyway. The reason we came to visit you here was because we want you to join us."

Miller laughed coolly. "Even if I wasn't dead to the world of technology, what makes you think I'd want to go straight back into the situation that nearly got me killed? And working under Kinzie Kensington? I'd rather chop off my own arm. I'm sorry, guys, but you're going to leave disappointed. Unless you consider my coffee a fitting reward for such a long journey."

"We don't," said Shaundi, harshly.

"Kinzie doesn't work for us," said Pierce, shooting her a look. "She's…well, she's actually the enemy." As Matt poured them another cup of crap, he told him the events that had led up to them coming here. Matt showed a wide-eyed interest throughout, his mouth opening in shocked surprise every so often.

"Viola, Viola," he said when Pierce had finished. "She was always the ambitious one, even in the early Syndicate days, but I had no idea she was this ballsy." He stood up, looking out his dirty stained window to the cornfields outside, as if weighing up his options. "You know, one thing I've always regretted is that I never truly defeated Kinzie. She was my nemesis. The Professor Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes. The Inspector Javert to my Jean Valjean. The…Khan to my Captain Kirk. I've much pictured a time where she would kneel before me. Broken and begging for mercy. It'd be hot." His eyes glazed over slightly.

"Think that's a little too much information," said Pierce.

"Sorry, got a little carried away there. But it would be good to outsmart her once and for all. She always thought she was better than me."

"So show her."

"Would you good folks wait for just two minutes?" asked Matt. "I'll be right back. Help yourself to more coffee."

"The fuck I will," said Shaundi, once he was out of earshot. Pierce laughed and poured his second cup into the sink. Five minutes later, Matt returned.

"Ta-da," he said, stepping into the room. The sandy hair was gone, replaced by a slicked-down black style. The ruddy, tanned skin was now deathly pale, soaked in something that could have been concealer or house paint. Instead of dirty overalls, he wore a finely-tailored Deckers' outfit. His lips were painted, but they weren't painted light blue; they were painted purple. It was as if he had stepped out of a time machine.

"Like them?" he said, pointing to his lips. "That's your colour, isn't it?"

"That's right," said Pierce, taken aback by the rapid transformation. He found it hilarious that Matt would keep something like this in the closet, 'just in case'. "Are you ready to go?"

"Most certainly." They left the farmhouse, and Matt gave it a wave. As they climbed into Shaundi's _Temptress, _he snapped his fingers.

"Speaking of purple," he said, as he adjusted his seat. "If there's two Saint groups, won't it be risky to have the same colours as them? Friends could get mistaken for foes, and vice versa?"

"You know, I never thought about that," said Shaundi.

* * *

><p>Hundreds of miles away, Viola was thinking about it. She observed the riot gear-like outfits being modelled by one of the bodyguards as she and Kinzie sat in the penthouse headquarters. The uniform was a very dark purple, almost black, and had enough armour to stop most single bullets making a dent. Kevlar was old fashioned, but a classic.<p>

"What do you think?" she asked Kinzie as the bodyguard displayed the gear in a fashion model's pose.

"I don't know," said Kinzie, observing him closely. "I mean, all black? Isn't it a little….Gestapo-esque?"

"Exactly. It's intimidating. It screams _don't fuck with me._"

_It screams genocide, _Kinzie thought, but she decided not to press the point. She'd gotten a lot closer to Viola in the week since the divide. Viola had seen her not so much as a rival for position, but as a loyal subordinate.

"Anyway, it's not black," Viola was saying. "It's very dark purple. So it's still Saints colours, but modified." She extended a hand to gesture the subtle difference in the man's uniform. "We'll start by outfitting the elite guys with this, then roll it out to everyone when it's financially viable." She thought, privately, that it was just the right time for the Saints to get a uniform. She had been revolted by the sight of gang members patrolling the streets dressed in greasy purple tank tops, track outfits, baseball caps or torn body warmers. Military disciple would help separate them from the mongrels that she was sure Pierce and Shaundi were trying to recruit, turning them into something more elegant than the traditional street gang.

Predicting Shaundi's movements was proving difficult. You could set your watch around a logical thinker's plans. If someone like Oleg was in charge, he would do exactly what would strengthen his side, and that would make him easy to predict. With Shaundi, she based so many of her decisions on her gut that she was completely unpredictable. No one had been able to pin down a location for her; she had quickly sold her condo and there was no clues given where she was hiding now. The three of them, she, Pierce and Oleg, had been spotted travelling around the city (Oleg especially was hard to miss) but they slipped away when any Saint patrols gave chase. Viola knew it was only a matter of time before they started targeting the Saints.

"Are you going to that party at the Three Count tonight?" Kinzie asked, breaking her concentration.

"Sure," she replied. "Angel's got everything set up."

"I'm going as well. Give you a lift?"

"I was going to ride in the limo," said Viola. "But, sure."

They set off at seven, two hours later, dressed to the nines. Viola was wearing a stunning black dress that even Kinzie had to admit set her mind racing. She wished she could get away with something that revealing and flamboyant. Her dress was red, bought from Planet Saints' 'last year' range, and she still wore glasses. She reasoned that her value wasn't window dressing, it was hacking and technology. It helped her sleep at night.

They got into Kinzie's red Solar. It wasn't the most fashionable car to drive to a glitzy party, but it served Kinzie well, and Viola was too polite to snub it. As they fastened their seatbelts, Kinzie directed her attention to an advanced-looking GPS screen built into the dashboard.

"Check this out," she said, impressively. "I'm thinking of patenting it."

"What, your GPS?"

"Yeah. It responds to voice commands. Like Siri on the iPhone, but it actually understands what you say. Not only that, it gives you the fastest way to go. Not just the way that's most legal."

"That's pretty cool," admitted Viola. "You designed it yourself?"

"Yup." She cleared her throat and talked to the GPS. "Take us to the Three Count Casino."

"_I'm afraid I can't do that, Kinzie," _a mechanical voice said.

"Still working out some kinks," she explained. Speaking louder, she said, "take us to the Three Count Casino."

"_I'm afraid I can't do that, Kinzie," _the voice repeated.

"Why not?" Kinzie demanded.

"_Because you designed me so damn badly that I can't even function properly!" _snapped the voice. It was followed by a harsh laughter. Suddenly, the dark screen gave way to another image. Matt Miller sat at a console, smiling savagely at her. Pierce and Shaundi were behind him.

"Thank God," he said. "I've been waiting at this damn internet café for half an hour, hoping you were going to drive somewhere."

"_Miller?" _she said with disbelief. "I thought you were gone for good!"

"I got a better offer," he explained. "Hello to you too, Viola."

"Yeah, hi, bitch!" said Shaundi, making an obscene gesture at the webcam.

"I'm going to find you Shaundi," said Viola, screaming at the GPS screen. "I'm going to find _all _of you! And you're going to wish you'd never been born!" She turned to Kinzie. "Find them! Do that…thing you do!"

"I wouldn't bother," said Matt. "Like I said, we're in an internet café. Downstate. By the time you pinpoint my position, I'll be in Steelport. That's right, Kensington. Matt Miller is coming back to town!" He gave what he hoped was a diabolical laugh.

"One more thing before you go," said Shaundi, peering forward. "Know this, Viola. We know you got the boss out of the way somehow. We don't know how you did it, or what you've done to him, but we're going to find out. And when we do, you're gonna have a fuckin' mutiny on your hands."

"Good luck with that," said Viola coldly, and switched the screen off. She and Kinzie were silent for a few moments. It was only when Kinzie started to drive that she spoke.

"This is problematic."

"I know," Kinzie replied. "Matt's a narcissistic, arrogant little punk, but he's a damn good hacker. When I was with the FBI, he was on a huge watch list. He might be able to break us."

"Put all your efforts into catching him. I want to factor him out of the equation completely. I want him alive preferably, dead if not."

"You keep talking about taking them alive," said Kinzie. "Any particular reason?"

"I want to bring them into the gang…just on my terms. Pierce has a good head on his shoulders, but I need to reign him in. Oleg will breed a whole army of clones, whether he wants to or not."

"And Shaundi?"

A malicious expression crossed her face as she turned to answer the question, and for a moment, Kinzie was taken aback. "I want her to see that everything she's fought for has failed. That she's been totally beaten. And I want her to kiss my ass."

"Figuratively, right?"

"Not in the least."

"Gotcha," said Kinzie, suddenly glad she was on Viola's side. "We're here."


	4. Chapter 4: The Discovery

**Chapter 4**

The first real strike came three days after that 'meeting'. Enrico Costas, one of Viola's newer lieutenants, was driving a purple plated Nordberg down in Salander, his crew in the passenger seats. Viola had decided that as the so-called 'True Saints' knew where Kinzie had her operations, it would be safer to move her entire operation closer to headquarters. They were carrying some of her boxes in the car's sizeable trunk, smoking joints and shooting the shit.

Jean Augustine, the huge Haitian, was looking around edgily, scanning the road. They crossed a Brown Baggers on the corner by the bridge, and he suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Hey, pull over here, man," he said, pointing. "I gotta go pick up some wine."

"Wine?" said Rico, wrinkling his nose. "You some kinda high society _culo_?"

"It's for my woman, motherfucker," said Jean, scowling at him. "Pull over!"

"Alright, alright, don't take too long." The car stopped, and he got out. He had decided he didn't like Costas. He was a relatively new member, and he'd gotten promoted way over him. Jean had been part of the Saints back in Stillwater, and had been one of the first soldiers that Pierce called over. Now, he was facing a low-rent future while the bandwagon-jumpers got ahead. Viola said she didn't have any bias against Stillwater Saints, but Jean saw that as pure political bullshit designed to keep guys like him in line.

He entered the liquor store casually, nodding a greeting at the shopkeeper. As soon as he was out of the car's eye line, he observed the window like a hawk. He knew exactly what to look for. After around a minute, a Thorogood pulled into view from the crossroads. The huge figure in the back told him this was the car he was waiting for. He walked briskly out of the store, towards the car, a curious sense of calm washing over him. Without a moment's hesitation, he took the 45 Shepherd he'd had since he joined the gang, said a silent prayer and shot Enrico twice in the face. His head burst open and a macabre pinkish fog spread around the car.

What happened after that, Jean had seen hundreds of times before when ambushing enemies. This was probably the most impressive, though. The brain has two extreme states in terms of threat management; there is the ultra-calm and the ultra-threatened, which engages the fight or flight reflex in with the highest urgency. The ultra-calm state comes from the feeling that nothing can threaten you. It's the type of calm that someone will feel just before going to sleep, or in the bath. You expect nothing to harm you, and in 99.999999% of times, nothing will. However, you still have an evolutionary awareness, so if someone breaks down your door, then you are prepared enough to defend yourself. But when your terror is absolute and immediate, you go into system shock. Time moves slower for you than it ever has. Jean and the three remaining Saints were frozen in time for what seemed like a minute, the sheer shock of impact meaning that the others didn't immediately grab their guns and turn him into Swiss cheese.

By the time they had actually reached for their guns, the car containing Pierce, Shaundi, Oleg and two True Saints pulled up and sprayed the car with gunfire. When the brief moment had passed and time was flowing normally for Jean, the four remaining Saints in the car were dead.

"You done good, Jean," said Pierce, jumping out of the car and shaking his hand. "You done real good. C'mon. There'll be more coming."

He jumped into the back of the pickup with Oleg and two of the guys that had already shown their true colours. Jean knew them well. Ibrahim Khan and Donnie Strauss had been Stillwater originals like him, and they were one of only a select few that could boast being in the gang before and after the boat explosion that changed everything. Jean himself had fought Vice Kings, Ronin and Morningstar in one lifetime. Now he was fighting his own people.

"You're a good guy, Aug," said Donnie. He passed him a beer. "We're gonna win this thing."

In the front seat, Shaundi was visually flustered. She kept fingering her gun by her hip. Pierce looked at her concernedly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, breathlessly. "It just kinda struck me now that we're gonna spill some blood here. Blood of our own people."

"Yep," he said simply, and decided to clam up until they got back to base.

* * *

><p><em>You're one of the lifers now.<em>

That was the message the screws had wanted to stamp in. He'd be an old man before any chance of freedom came up naturally. The British justice system was pretty damn lenient nowadays, at least if you were a nonce or a tax evader, but cop killers still got the harshest sentences.

They were a curious type, the lifers. They comprised some of the worst human beings out there. The psycho slashers, the East End gangsters, the rapists. His reputation in America made him something of a celebrity among the professional criminals, who were fascinated by the concept of a world they could control bigger than the squats and council houses that compromised their turfs. Plus, his mysterious lack of a name got them thinking.

There was a loose fraternity among the pros. Drug lords from Peckham, Yardies and rudeboys from Bethnal Green, armed robbers from Dagenham and even Russian human traffickers had formed an unusual alliance. The only lifers not permitted to join were the head cases, the sexual predators and the loonies just sane enough to avoid the loony bin.

The boss lived comfortably as one of the group's leaders. He got to exchange his usual procedure of gun violence in favour of punishment beatings against troublesome inmates. People feared the lifers as they had far less to lose. Prisoners on short sentences avoided them like the plague, terrified of either getting involved in something that would extend their sentences or coming to serious harm. All in all, life in prison was an eerie calm he'd been awaiting for years.

It took all of his mental energy to try to find a way to communicate with the Saints. He didn't know, of course, that a civil war had begun. He wanted to send a letter to HQ, but even though there wasn't a trial to think of, snail mail left a paper trail that could help the Steelport PD assemble any case they wanted against the Saints. And electronic communication from a secure place like Belmarsh was just as stupid.

The answer came around two weeks after he first entered the lifers' wing. A very small number of his fellow inmates got visitors; people tended to stop coming after three years or so. They forgot, or it got too painful. As someone cut off completely from his friends, he never expected a visitor, so it shocked him when he got one. He was playing poker in the common room when the message came through, and it baffled him; surely it was a mistake?

He was visibly taken aback when he stepped out into the visitors' room and saw Dorian Sinclair sitting at a table. The old crook was a bizarre, almost hilarious throwback to a time before. His hair was fully grey but intact, with not even a hint of a receding hairline. His wrinkled face bore several large scars from his violent roots, but his eyes, brilliant and blue, were as sharp as they had ever been. He wore a crisp sheepskin coat and a pinstripe suit.

"Alright?" he said, affably.

The boss sat down. "My God. Dorian Sinclair as I live and breathe. How the hell are ya?"

"Not bad," said the old man in a harsh, rasping voice. When the boss knew him, he smoked four cigars a day, so that explained a great deal of it. He was amazed the old man was still here. "Can we, uh, can we talk?"

The boss looked around, making sure the screws were out of earshot. "Yeah."

"You done me a real good turn, son," said Sinclair. "When I read about you going on trial, I was worried. Ten years, you didn't know what I was doing, or whether I was dead or alive, and you still never grassed me up. Didn't mention my name one fucking time. You're a good bloke. They don't make 'em like you often."

"I wouldn't grass," he replied. "It's against my code."

"You're part of a dying breed," said Sinclair, slightly maudlin. "You did me a really good turn with Francis and you did me a really good turn in the Crown Court. I think you're owed one." He clapped his hands together. "So name it. Now, I can't break you out. I haven't got that kind of clout anymore. But anything else, name it. You want pills sending in here? Maybe a bit of charlie to make the nights go easier? Maybe some money going to someone on civvy street while you're banged up? Wife? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend? I ain't been in the nick that long, you cheeky cunt!" He laughed. Sinclair joined in, an oily, raspy laugh. "You know what, though?" he asked, suddenly serious. "Fuck. You're a Godsend! You couldn't have come at a better time!"

"You name it, it's done."

"Fucking Godsend," the boss repeated. "Listen, it's nothing smuggling or money. What I really need, _really need, _is for you to get in contact with someone for me. It needs to be absolutely hush hush. Nothing over the phone. Know what I mean?"

"Say no more," said Sinclair. "Well, tell me the number, _and then _say no more."

* * *

><p>Shaundi looked at Pierce worriedly as he packed his bags. They had decided to hold their official headquarters in an abandoned church a couple of blocks from Loren Square for this week. It had the familiarity of the first Saints headquarters, so gave the old timers a nostalgic rush and symbolised rebirth. The rest of them; Oleg and around five deserters now, were saddling up for an ambush. Pierce was saddling up to go to the airport.<p>

"Are you sure it's a good idea?" she asked, not for the first time.

Pierce nodded. "The guy said he had information I needed. I wish he could have told me more over the phone, but I can see why he didn't."

"It could be a trap," she countered, also not for the first time.

"Look," he began, forcefully. Shaundi usually got to be the one to speak forcefully, but she was acting out of worry, and not sense here. "If Viola wanted to set a trap for me, she wouldn't send me on a flight to London. Besides, the guy was clearly British. You can't fake a good British accent. Just ask Don Cheadle! That motherfucker spent three Ocean movies trying to get it right, and he sounded like a tool. Who do we know that's British? Naw, fuck that, who do we know from London?"

"You're right," she said, relenting in a way she hadn't done before.

"And when I'm right, I'm right. Right?"

"Just get to the freaking airport. And call in when you land. Use a code word. 'The sparrow has landed' or some shit."

"Wasn't that a Michael Caine movie?"

"You're thinking Eagle. Moron." But she grinned. Pierce took a taxi to Wesley Cutter, not wanting to leave a car there for the Saints to rig a car bomb to. It was paranoid thinking, but it paid to be paranoid in this climate.

Pierce had never been to London. The boss had talked about his upbringing sometimes when the two of them had been drinking, and he made the city sound quite a miserable place. Lembath…Lambeth… which was where he grew up, was particularly depicted as a piece of shit ghetto. Perhaps that was why the boss never told anyone his name; because he didn't want any association with his life there? Pierce made a mental note to ask him when he saw him.

He touched down at Gatwick in the early afternoon. The skies were overcast, and he was slightly disappointed that the airport was too far out in the country for him to see the famous London skyline. He was going to see the famous Gherkin after he visited the boss.

There was a large man at the arrivals gate with a sign bearing the name _P. Washington. _He hadn't expected his mystery caller to send a car. His alarm rose slightly, but he decided that this was probably just a courtesy.

"Hey," he said to the man as he left the gate. "I'm P. Washington. I mean, I'm Pierce."

"Alright, mate?" said the man, in a similar voice to the boss's. He was a terrifying sight to behold; completely bald, with a frame that made him look like King Kong under his dark overcoat. His knuckles had LOVE-HATE tattooed on them. Several of his teeth were missing, replaced by gold. "The car's just out here."

They crossed into the car park, and Pierce was slightly taken aback to see a black Status Quo waiting for him. The man lifted his suitcase into the car's trunk and opened the door for him.

Pierce knew by intuition that the man waiting inside was the one who had phoned him. He was old but fierce-looking, and was dressed to the nines. He was drinking scotch from a tumbler that Pierce recognised as pure crystal and had a pinstripe suit on. He could have been straight out of one of those movies the boss got him to watch once by Madonna's ex-husband. Something about a poker game and a guy that drowned people; he had been too drunk to pay attention to it properly.

"Nice to meet you, Pierce," said the man, and then Pierce was sure it was him. "I'm Dorian Sinclair." He raised his glass. "Scotch?"

"Sure," said Pierce, and Sinclair poured him a glass from a minibar on the floor of the limo.

"Thanks for, uh, picking me up," said Pierce, taking a drink.

"Better than fart-arsing around at East Croydon. Worst fucking station in London. Anyway. I've got some information for you, like I said on the phone. It's about your boss."

"Holy shit," said Pierce. "He's alive? Tell me he's fuckin' alive!"

"He's alive," said Sinclair. "Only problem is, he's banged up."

"So, he's…." Pierce paused. "Okay, I'll level with you, dawg, I have no idea what that means."

Dorian took a large gulp, finishing his drink. "He's in prison."


	5. Chapter 5: The Meeting

**Quick AN: This chapter gets a little bit symbolism-heavy, or at least I meant it to. Apologies if it comes off as pretentious.**

**Chapter 5**

The boss was less surprised this time when the message came through to his cell that there was another visitor. He figured that Sinclair had forgotten some aspect, like Pierce's phone number, or wanted to confirm that he had done it. He had to admit, he hadn't expected the old man to be so accommodating; most of the time, if someone paid you for a job then that was their end fulfilled. Sinclair wasn't like that, though; he was old school. He had honour.

What _did _surprise him, however, was that it wasn't Sinclair waiting for him in the meeting room. It was Pierce! He did a double take, wondering if this was his mind playing tricks on him. He reminded himself that he owed Sinclair a big one. He crossed the room in a daze.

"Well, ain't this a fine situation?" said Pierce, grinning. "A brotha could be offended. You never write, you never call. Sometimes I think it's just me in this relationship!"

The banter wasn't penetrating the boss's shock impulse. "P-Pierce," he said, stuttering. "You're here!"

"In the flesh, motherfucker. Lemme tell you something. It is _good _knowing that you're alive!"

"I missed you," he found himself admitting. "You and Shaundi both. How is she? How are the others? You beat Oleg in chess yet? Kinzie finally started to get out? I-"

"I should probably getcha up to speed," Pierce replied, uncertainly. The boss listened with rapt attention as his right hand man told him exactly what had happened in the weeks since he had been snatched. His head swam. After Pierce finished, it was a moment before he spoke.

"Damn that Viola," he said shortly. "I always knew she was ambitious, but _this?_" He stared Pierce in the eyes after looking around to make sure they were out of earshot. "I want you to kill her, Pierce. I want her head on a fucking platter!"

"We're working on that," he replied, quietly. "But I think there's another pressing matter at hand."

"Like what?"

"Like how we're gonna bust your ass out of here and get you back to Steelport." The words had come out completely deadpan. The boss nodded. "Sinclair told me he doesn't have the power to bust you out. I don't know no people here. You know anyone who might be able to help? I can get a message out to them? Some motherfuckers you mighta rolled with back in Lembath?"

"Lambeth," he corrected, absentmindedly. "And no. It's been years since I've talked to anyone here. I left London behind me when I moved to Stillwater."

"Right," said Pierce.

"Look," he said, forcefully. "Let me worry about breaking out. This is Belmarsh, not fuckin' Alcatraz. It might take a little while, but I'll think about it every second I get. Meanwhile, carry on like you have been. Listen to Shaundi. She's a fighter."

"I know," Pierce replied. "Look, visiting hours ain't long and I'm catching the red eye tonight, so I'm gonna get outta your hair. Stay focused, man. If you ain't busted out in two months, I'ma come back and check up. Got it?"

"Got it. Stay strong, Pierce."

* * *

><p>Shaundi, Oleg and the others listened with rapt attention as Pierce brought them up to speed. It was, he reflected, probably the longest he'd been listened to without retort in his life. Even Shaundi, who liked to bust his chops more than anyone, had her mouth open the whole time and didn't interrupt him once. He had slept on the red eye and called a meeting at the hideout as soon as he had landed. The others needed to know that the boss was alive – and what Viola had done.<p>

"Who is this McGraw guy?" Jean asked once he had finished. "Do we need to take him out of the picture?"

"He's back in the UK. Besides, if he got iced, they'd be asking the boss questions. We wanna keep things on the down-low for as long as we can."

"Viola's a crafty bitch," said Shaundi. "I know she spoke to McGraw somehow, but I can't prove it. Even if we grabbed the guy, he wouldn't say shit. And Viola's too smart to admit to anything."

"Why don't we just break him out?" asked Oleg. "Mount a huge rescue operation. I myself witnessed one before, from a Siberian gulag."

"When were you in a Siberian gulag?" asked Donnie.

"That's classified," he replied, gruffly.

"We'd get ourselves killed," Pierce replied. "I seen that place with my own two eyes. It ain't Stillwater Correctional, but those British prison guard motherfuckers got big guns. If we got killed, no one would be able to stop Viola."

"This is true," said Oleg. Since Pierce had flown there and back, he had spilled the blood of four men. The True Saints had rigged a fireworks display in the parking lot outside Safeword using satchel charges and some of the new dark purple Churchills Viola had ordered. It was the dead of night, but some of the guards had still seen them, and they had had to open fire. Once the threat was taken care of, they drove away, and the explosion lit up the night sky like Independence Day. It had sent a message and limited the Saints' mobility across New Colvin. Oleg, due to his size, wasn't naturally suited to urban guerrilla warfare, but he found it exciting. Shaundi had been ecstatic. They used stolen pickup trucks (it needed to be pickup trucks, as Oleg couldn't fit in anything else) to conduct their raids, to avoid being traced. Once they were done with such a vehicle, one of them would drive it to a secluded alley and torch it.

The church was proving an excellent place to organise these attacks, but Shaundi knew it would be too small a headquarters once their ranks swelled. When Matt came to work for them, several Deckers had immediately pledged their allegiance. Shaundi was considering refusing them, but she knew that it would be a foolish move. Nick Burrego, a Luchador lieutenant who wrestled under the flamboyant stage name of _El Hombre comer Tiberôn _(the Man Eating Shark), had already agreed for him and his crew to join the True Saints; the Luchadores had more reason than anyone to fear extermination by the Saints, as it was their leader Killbane who had killed Viola's sister.

It was almost like a return to the beginning. They were growing into a collection of very different hoods, a 'mongrel' gang united by a single colour and a need for self-defence. Having their headquarters in a church was the symbolic touch that finished it off.

Oleg, using his usual scholarly touch, had compared their situation to the Book of Revelations. The Antichrist had risen in the form of Viola (born of the Morningstar, fittingly) who brought war to the gang's world. The faithful had been united, even though their numbers were small. If they won the war, then the old world of the Saints would end. The crass commercialism, the selling out, the energy drinks, that would all be gone. They would be reborn anew, their priorities straight, their methods in force and not words. They had both been slightly high when he explained it to her, and she'd mentioned that no one had been raptured up into heaven yet, and he had shrugged and told her not all allegories were perfect.

Even though it wasn't all of creation in the balance, the stakes were unimaginably high. Viola's ambition would never be sated. The boss had always said that anyone could take over a city, not only from other gangs but from Uncle Sam, if they were motivated enough. By the way Viola was outfitting her thugs, they were preparing for a coup d'état. And that was just thinking of the city; if Viola won, she and the others would be dead, or worse.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry," said Mayor Reynolds, shaking his head. "I just can't do anything."<p>

"C'mon, Bandit," said Pierce, encouragingly. He and Shaundi were in Burt's office; it was the first time he had set foot in City Hall since the two of them first met. He yawned. He had barely slept last night due to jetlag from London (although jetlag mostly happened _eastwards _across the Atlantic, so he figured it must be a delayed reaction) and it was showing. "He saved the city from zombies, didn't he?"

"That's why I'm doing him a favour and staying out of this," Reynolds replied. "If I talk to the British ambassador, I'll have to tell them he's been spending the last few years in America. They alert the FBI, who check his new face on the system and see that he's wanted for hundreds more murders, including the federal judge who tried to sentence Johnny Gat. Before you can say diplomatic shitstorm, they'll have him in Texas, waiting to get fifty thousand volts up his ass."

"See your point," said Shaundi, dejectedly. "Alright, thanks." She got up to leave, but heard a recognisable creaking sound behind her. On the far side of the room, the office door was opening again. And through it stepped Viola and Kinzie, wearing dark purple outfits.

Shaundi sprung up and pointed a gun at Viola. Her enemy was initially in shock, but was fast enough to draw her own gun and point it back. She had done it in a fraction of a second, too fast for Shaundi to shoot before she knew what she was doing.

"Viola, what's the meaning of this?" demanded Mayor Reynolds. "You don't have an appointment!"

"I booked it with your secretary," Viola said, not taking her eyes or her gun off Shaundi even by an inch.

"My secretary's been on leave. The temp was filling in. She is so fired."

"What are you doing here, Shaundi?" Viola demanded. "Want me to blow your pretty little brain out right here and now?"

"If anyone spills brain juice on my carpet, they'll be next," said Burt, drawing a 44 Magnum and pointing it at the two women now engaging in a Mexican standoff. None of the five people in the room moved even a muscle.

"I was just telling Mayor Reynolds about the little stunt you pulled, Vi," said Shaundi, with mock sweetness. "Oh, no, did I forget to tell you? We spoke to the big guy. We know all about your little friend…McGraw? That's his name, right?"

Kinzie had barely looked sideways, but she could _feel _how much Viola's face had stiffened. It was like rigamortis had set in that instant. She wasn't an expert in body language, but she knew that the mention of that name had struck a chord.

"What's she talking about?" she asked Viola.

"I guess you picked the wrong side, Kensington," said Shaundi. "Your little gal pal here got the boss arrested by the Brits. She planned the whole thing, start to finish."

"She's lying, Kinz," said Viola, through bared teeth. "She's just trying to discredit me so she can get me out the way." Facing down Shaundi, she said, "Don't suppose you've got any proof?"

"Not yet," Shaundi admitted. "But it's only a matter of time. He's coming, ya know. That dinky little limey jail can't hold him. When he comes back, he'll tell everyone what you did."

"If he is in prison, and he comes back, I think he'll be proud of what I've done here. He'll probably kick you and your little friends out for betraying me." She turned to Kinzie. "Come on, sis. We've got better places to be."

When she was gone, Pierce and Shaundi ran to the car. Viola would expect them to leave immediately, but they knew she would send someone just in case they got delayed.

Viola was, indeed, calling into base by the time she got downstairs. "Send a crew. There's a chance we can pick them up. I don't know! Maybe they get car trouble or Pierce forgets his wallet. Send a crew." She put the phone down and got into her new dark purple Temptress. Kinzie got into the passenger seat. She looked at Viola doubtfully.

"I just want to ask one question," she said, slowly. "Is it true?"

Viola stared hard at her, almost ignoring the road as she drove. "Don't ask stupid questions, Kinzie."

"_Is it true?" _she repeated, more forcefully.

Viola slammed on the brakes and parked up on the sidewalk. "No. No, it's not. I swear on all that's holy. Alright? Are you _satisfied?" _

"Yeah," said Kinzie. Viola gave a vicious nod and started to move again. They didn't exchange a single word throughout the rest of the journey. Kinzie had suddenly developed an acute feeling that something was wrong. She had reacted so strongly to the name McGraw; it was almost as some bizarre game was up. Would Viola get the boss out of the way to further her own agenda? _Probably, _thought Kinzie. _Probably._


	6. Chapter 6: Honour the Fallen

**Chapter 6**

Angel had never run so fast in his life. His career as a wrestler had seen him at the peak of physical fitness, but the sheer weight this escape was having on his lungs told him that he had let himself get too out of shape. That was, he supposed, what happened when you fought with a gun instead of a fist.

He turned around. He had lost his pursuers. Even breathing a sigh of relief hurt him. He was in the backstreets now, the city narrows, and safe. On the corner, there was a pay phone. He briefly considered his options, then grabbed some change from his pockets. As he dialled, his hand was shaking.

"Hello?" said Shaundi, speaking into her cell. "Who's this?"

"Shaundi...Shaundi, it's Angel! They found me out!"

"They found you out?" Her voice was immediately panicked. "Shit! How?"

"I don't know! They were waiting for me at home! I just ran...I just ran..."

He was interrupted by a loud shout behind him. He spun around and his heart sank. A dark purple Justice had just pulled up and four Saints got out of it. Each of them pulled a gun on him. He let the phone drop until it was hanging from the chord, and using the cover of darkness, pulled a gun of his own. He faced the four men down, defiantly.

"Boss just wants to talk to ya," said the leader.

"She wants to...use me...as bait," he said, pained. "Fuck...you...assholes."

"You ain't got nowhere to run," the lieutenant said, firmly.

"I'm...done...running." He shot the lieutenant twice in the chest. He went down. An ambitious part of him thought he could hit one more of them, but lady luck wasn't on his side. He heard the roar of a shotgun before he exploded in pain, his every sense dominated by the lead that tore through him. The adrenalin from shooting their leader masked the pain after a second, but every feeling left his body. Then his world faded to black.

One of the other Saints kicked the corpse, confirming he was dead. He looked over at the body of his lieutenant, a brief feeling is sadness washing over him. That was when he noticed the phone hanging by its cord.

Shaundi hadn't needed a running commentary to know that the worst had happened. But final confirmation came when she heard someone else picking.

"That Shaundi?" said a shaky voice on the other.

"Who the fuck is this?" she demanded.

"We're coming for you. Sooner or later."

* * *

><p>The church was silent. The True Saints were either in reverence or prayer, casting their eyes down and not looking at each other once. The atmosphere of the room had a palpable smell of death and tragedy. It was exactly the type of sentiment houses of worship were built for.<p>

Pierce had thought long and hard about breaking this silence. The words in his mouth were turning to bile, and he would choke on them unless he spoke.

"Why didn't you tell us Angel was on our side?"

The sentence had wakened the room louder than an explosion. Everyone looked round at once, as if blaming Pierce for interrupting their worship. Then, when they processed his question, they turned to Shaundi, silently demanding an answer.

"He was the only firsthand link we had to Viola," she replied, shakily. "I had to make sure his cover was kept. Any link woulda been fatal."

"Wait a minute." Pierce was on his feet now, alert. "That means you were afraid there was one of us working for Viola."

He could virtually hear the hurt pouring out when he spoke. "Yeah. That's right."

A rage engulfed him. He shot across the room like a lightning bolt, making for the door. Shaundi, who was closer than him, stepped out to stop him. "Wait a minute, Pierce, don't go!"

"Who was it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who fucking was it?" he screamed. No one in the room had ever seem him raise his voice like that. He was usually calm and collected, even in the most volatile situation. "You had to suspect either me or Oleg of being a rat. If you didn't, you would have laid your fuckin' cards on the table once you saw no one else was coming. You suspected either me or Oleg. Who was it?"

Shaundi sighed. She looked as if the ground would swallow her up. "Okay," she finally said, with a broken voice. "Okay. It could have...it could have been either of you."

"I'm fucking gone," he said, and pushed past her. He got to the far side of the church room, when a gargantuan hand stopped him in his tracks.

"It makes perfect sense, Pierce," said Oleg, now fully blocking his path. Despite his stoic Russian droning, both Pierce and Shaundi could tell that he was stung. The big guy sounded like he could punch a wall (in half) or burst into tears. Pierce could feel him; he had fought for Shaundi loyally, and she suspected him of being a rat. "A good general has to keep some cards close to their chest. Viola could have been blackmailing one of us. There could be any reason for one of us to turn traitor. Sit down."

"Lemme tell you something, Oleg," said Pierce slowly. "You're a good guy. One of the best. Out of all the people we've taken on in Steelport, you might just be my favourite. You play chess. You talk philosophy, and while I don't get some of it, I like hearing you talking about it. Plus...you're eight fucking feet tall, are basically Superman, and could probably tear this place down with your bare hands. But I tell you this. If you don't get outta my way, and this is a promise, I will kick your motherfuckin' ass all over this here House of God. Try me. Try me, motherfucker."

Oleg, who had never heard such a dangerous tone in his friend's voice, promptly stood aside. Pierce burst out the door, and got in his car.

"Wait!" called Shaundi, running out of the church and banging on his window. He took his foot off the accelerator for a moment. "Pierce, please wait. I'm actually kinda begging you here. Not just because I want you by my side, but 'cause I don't think I could do this without you." She looked right at him. "Please, just hear what I have to say. You don't like it, you go anywhere you want, even to Viola. I won't hold it against you. But please, listen to me."

"Alright. Fuck it." He opened the passenger door and she got in. When she was silent for a few moments, he prompted her with, "I'm waiting."

"Oleg was right," she began slowly. "I had to make one hundred percent sure no one was reporting back to Viola before I explained about Angel. I don't know what Viola could have done to make you turn rat. But she's far smarter than anyone. And more devious."

"I always liked you, Shaundi," he said softly. "Me and the boss have always been bros. But I never saw you as anything but a buddy either. Even when you used to steal my ideas an' shit. You were never the enemy. The three of us? I thought that shit was for life!"

"It is!" she said, her voice cracking. "You went halfway around the world just to see him. Any three of us would gladly die for the other. We're the weirdest fucking team in the world. You don't even know my last name. Neither of us even knows his first. But we're family, all the same. Don't matter if we're Saints or not."

"But you didn't think I felt the same way!" he snapped back. "Otherwise, you wouldn't even be able to think of me as a traitor."

"I was wrong," she said slowly. "About you. Even about Oleg. I haven't...I haven't been a good judge of character recently."

"Plus, you kinda changed," said Pierce. "Back in Stillwater, you used to be this super hippie stoner fun-loving chick. Ever since you got here, it's been doom and gloom. Was it just 'cause of Gat?"

"Yeah," she said. "But not just in the way you'd think. First it was Carlos and Aisha, then him. We're all mortal, ya know? You or me could go on an ambush and wind up dead. Even with Angel...I needed someone in Viola's camp, but I was so scared that...well, that he'd get found out. I wonder how they did it?"

"He was a warrior, not an actor," said Pierce. "But he was still the best choice. Just like Oleg was saying."

"I guess," she said, sadly. "But yeah, it was Johnny's death as well 'cause of the mourning. You and the boss seemed to do okay. How come?"

"We sat in the car and sung that Sublime song, karaoke-style. Seemed to help."

"You got a CD of it somewhere?"

"It's in my CD player now. Wanna try it?"

"It might help," she said, optimistically.

"Then, we can go back inside," he said, cranking up the volume.

* * *

><p>Viola wasn't too disturbed by the news that Angel had been killed. No True Saints would have come to rescue or bargain for him. Deep cover agents knew the risks, and they knew they were on their own.<p>

He had tried to keep his informing a secret, but the information was too good. Viola found the True Saints knew the Saints' every move, even though the war had only been going on for several weeks. Some Saints were defecting, true, but their place in the chain of command was relatively low, and they couldn't have had that level of knowledge. It stood to reason that there was a higher rat.

She had started surveillance of her generals relatively early. When Enrico was killed, she told Angel, Kinzie and Zimos she would have elite bodyguards shadowing them while on business, in case the True Saints attacked. It told them they were being watched, but it would mean they would be less suspicious if they saw they were being followed. After that, a process of elimination made things all the more easy. Zimos surrounded himself with bodyguards and pimps anyway, and lived the life of an outlandish sex industry giant with barely any notice of the increased surveillance. Kinzie was slightly more hostile to her new 'bodyguards' but she made them tea and instructed them to sit silently to avoid breaking her concentration. Angel, on the other hand, gave himself away relatively quickly. He would be evasive, and take wildly varying routes to avoid detection. He even climbed down a fire escape to make a call. His observers/guards reported back, and Viola had her man.

She stared out of the penthouse window as the sun set and the city lit up in bright neon. It had started raining late in the afternoon, and now she could hear thunder. The headquarters was empty apart from a few guards, and for a moment, she was completely alone with her thoughts. The city before her would be whispering tonight. There would be talk of more deaths in a vicious feud that no journalist would ever know the true reason behind. Things would be made more interesting when they found the identity of one victim. A former wrestling champ. Angel de la Muerte. The Angel of Death. It would lead to a flood of speculation. And all the while, Shaundi was down there, and she would be plotting revenge for her spy.

She felt a strong pang of irritation when the elevator tone distracted her from her thoughts. Zimos had come up from the garage downstairs.

"Hey," she said. "You finish the deal with the union?"

"Yeah-the-shipments-won't-be-watched-by-the-DEA-anymore," he sang.

"Good. You've done well. You're not on duty tonight. What's up?"

"Some-of-the-lieutenants-are-hitting-the-town," he said. "Do-you-want-to-head-over?"

She took one more look outside. "No, you have fun, Zimos. I'm going to stay here tonight. I think there's a storm coming."


	7. Chapter 7: Escape

**A/N: Okay, I originally meant to scrap this story, as it didn't really get much interest. But I was re-reading it and I'm kinda proud of the work, so I thought I'd finish it anyway.**

**Chapter 7**

The boss thrived once his focus was drawn to something concrete. His mind was working all hours planning his escape route. Mere escape was only the first stage of the plan; he had to work out how to avoid immediate recapture, and get to Steelport. Sinclair, no longer involved in the more banal aspects of drug imports, couldn't even recommend a good passport provider. The True Saints had no way to produce a passport. It was irrelevant, though; once the prison authorities found out that he had escaped, his face would be plastered everywhere. All airports and seaports would be firmly closed to him.

He scolded himself also for planning the post-escape part of the plan before he'd even broken out. Belmarsh was one of the most secure facilities in the UK. They may as well have locked him up in the Tower of London, like an enemy to the crown.

Fortunately, he had assistance in that area. He'd found himself saddled with a hanger-on, a sidekick. Jamal Kelly was an affable, well-spoken kid, one of the youngest of the lifers at nineteen. The boss had to admit feeling sorry for him. He was a natural outsider; his dad was Jamaican, his mum was English, and he was the only mixed-race member of his cousin's Poplar street gang. He'd been targeted by other crews because of it. He had found himself in a life-or-death situation involving an attack in his local park by some rivals from Stepney, and by sheer force of adrenalin had stabbed two youths to death. The jury hadn't accepted a self-defence plea from a known gang member, and he'd been sentenced as fast as he could blink.

The kid talked a lot. He would drone on about UEFA, or Tarantino films, or Cheryl Cole, for hours on end. The boss had initially swatted him away like a fly, but the constant talking eventually became a pleasant hum. When he wasn't yapping like a Chihuahua, he asked questions. He had read about the Saints with rapt fascination, and while no newspaper had ever publicly named the boss with the gang, every lifer knew he was in charge. Jamal asked about his life, what living in Steelport was like, and whether Shaundi really was easy. The boss had initially wondered if he was some sort of undercover plant, to establish a relationship between him and the gang, but he didn't need to be Legal Lee to know that would be massively illegal.

At first, he had a purely sentimental reason for letting the kid stay around. In many ways, he reminded him of Carlos. He saw the same wife-eyed enthusiasm, the same apprentice mentality, and had a general manner that made him impossible to dislike. The boss always felt he had done wrong by Carlos, and that he could redeem himself by helping Jamal. But he came to be practically useful, also. When he was sixteen, apparently, he had been sent to a young offenders' institute for shoplifting a bottle of vodka. And he had broken out. He wasn't intelligent in a classic sense, and had all the trappings of the uneducated in terms of cultural likes and aspirations. But when it came to buildings, he had a strange affinity. Escaping, infiltrating, it came as second nature. If he wasn't useless at staying hidden, then he would have stayed free. His proficiency only extended to the buildings themselves.

They worked around the clock on the different stages of the plan. As lifers were monitored far more closely than the short term prisoners, it was difficult to survey the block's weak points. But the boss had a view of the courtyard from his cell, and they agreed early on that it was the key to any attempt. Once they could brainstorm around it, it would lead them straight out.

It was two weeks after Pierce's last visit that the message came through to his cell of another visitor. At first, assuming it to be Pierce, he was angry. The guy had a war to win, and he was wasting time making social calls halfway around the world.

But it wasn't Pierce. Sitting patiently in the visitors' room was Jack McGraw. He looked as if he had let himself go slightly; the CID tended to dress sharply, but he was now wearing an old sweater and chinos. Plus, the impressive muscle mass that had defied his advanced years seemed to have turned into fat slightly.

"Afternoon," he said, cooly.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, smiling despite himself. It was a strange sensation, meeting McGraw alone, face to face. He had been kept under wraps during the journey to London. In fact, the only reason he knew so much about McGraw was his testimony during the trial.

He stared ahead, uncomfortably. "Look, there's something I wanted to say first and foremost. I'm...I'm sorry about Colin Francis. Not the kill itself, but what it's done." He meant it; like any casual killer, he started to see his victims as less than human. He put as much moral consternation into murders as one would stepping on a cockroach. The consequences of his actions were completely beyond him. When he looked at McGraw, however, he saw how his actions did indeed have side effects. This man's life had been massively impacted. His eyes lacked the light of humanity. There seemed to be an overwhelming cynicism to his every word and action. He hadn't been defeated, though; in a strong sense, he had been hardened. This was a man who had looked the world in the face and decided it could go fuck itself.

"Cheers for that," said McGraw, and some of that hardness seemed to fade, even if it was for a moment. "You know what's bizarre though? It almost feels worse now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Trying to hunt you down has given me meaning. It's like a...shaggy dog story. Know what I mean?"

"Not really, no."

"Alright, say...there's a bloke that travels the land searching for a golden apple. He goes high and low, near and far, and gets into all sorts of whacky hijinks along the way. It's mental. He's doing it for years. Finally, he finds the golden apple. But it's not actually made of gold. Kind of a let-down, to be honest."

"Bad news for the bloke."

"He thinks that at first," said McGraw. "Then he realises that he doesn't give a shit about the apple. The adventures he had along the way were what was important. Ten years I had this fantasy in my mind that you were only a single step ahead of me. That you would slip up and I'd be there to swoop in. Turns out, you were miles ahead."

"Well, lemme tell you this," the boss replied. "I'm getting out of here soon. I feel comfortable telling you this because it's going to happen. You could talk to the prison authorities or have a conference with Dave at 10 Downing Street, it's going to happen. And I reckon you know exactly why I'm telling you this. I reckon you'd enjoy your twilight years a lot more if you spent them doing something productive."

"Like hunting you down like the animal you are? Waiting for you to make a wrong move and moving in for the kill?"

"Exactly. Reckon it'll do you good. What do you say?"

"I say, you've met your match, you evil bastard," McGraw said, but he grinned in a way that suggested optimism for the first time in a long while.

It was only two nights after that conversation that they escaped. Jamal had smuggled a sharp steak knife from the canteen kitchen. They used it to skilfully cut around the window's seal, meaning that it would not wake the whole place up when ripped out. The crossbars guarding the window were more tricky. They were held in place by a combination of steel nails and industrial glue. They slid the knife under the support structure and chipped away at the dry glue. Once the adhesive support was gone, they used the knife as a crowbar. It bent beyond all use, but managed to disengage the bar. With a clear run to the window, they disengaged it and pulled it away, leaving only an opening.

There was a fair distance to the ground of the courtyard outside, but they hauled his mattress out of the window. The boss landed on it first, followed by Jamal. The courtyard was deserted; late-night outdoor guard duty seemed redundant in an age of electronic surveillance. There was even a camera in the boss's cell, but it would barely be watched now.

They made their way to a utility shed on the far side of the area. The wall was as high here as anywhere in Belmarsh's compound, impossible to scale, but scaling it had never been their intention. Jamal pointed to the shed, when they reached it, whispering.

"If I'm right, an' I'm always right, man comes down here anytime now ta get the…what they called…pallets ready for when food comes in. Wait until he's inside, then knock the clart out."

He gestured forward and the two men crouched on the far side of the shed, waiting in near silence. The boss almost didn't breathe in the cold night air, as his breath would alert their target. After around ten minutes of silence, they heard a whistling. It was coming from the far side of the utility shed. A man in a utility jumpsuit twirled the keys on his fingers and headed towards the shed. Judging by his casual gait, he couldn't see them crouching on the other side. He shone a light onto the padlock protecting the utility shed and fumbled briefly with it, then opened the shed.

The boss didn't wait to move. He crept in, closing the shed door behind him. The workman turned around in surprise, but he didn't get a chance to make a sound. He put his hands on the man's neck, using his arm to cover his mouth and stop him shouting. Using all the physical force he could muster, he choked him, suppressing the man's frantic struggle to stay alive. His own hands shook with the sheer exertion. After several moments of grotesque thrashing, the light left the man's eyes.

Jamal followed him in and gasped. "Jesus!" he said in the strongest whisper he could manage. "I told you to knock him out, not _kill _him!"

"He would have woken up," the boss replied, impassively. "If we pull this off, we'll both head to Steelport and you'll be a Saint. Part of being a Saint is being ready to kill. Got it?"

"Got…I got it," he replied uneasily. They hid the body behind a pile of burlap sacks in the corner of the room and took his jumpsuit as well as the spare one that was hung up. Looking like prison warehouse workers, they left, and Jamal took a pallet truck from the shed.

It was a tense twenty minute wait for the first delivery van to arrive. It was now three in the morning, and the early-shift guards would arrive for work soon. Both of them breathed a sign of relief, though, when they saw that the first set of headlights belonged to a huge lorry.

Following Jamal's lead, they went over to the delivery area and greeted the driver. He seemed a little surprised to see them, pausing slightly before getting out, as if expecting something to happen.

"Alright?" he said, nervously. "Where's Kevin?"

"Wasn't feeling himself yesterday," the boss replied, offhandedly. "He's called in sick."

"Gotcha," said the driver, getting out of the cab and opening up the back. "Just a few boxes today."

"Nice one," said Jamal. He took the pallet truck towards the back of the van. It took around ten minutes to unload the ten boxes of food supplies and place them in the corner. Anyone who oversaw the work wouldn't have spied anything out of the ordinary.

When they were finished, Jamal approached the driver. "Could you do us a favour? There's a couple of new forms to sign. Prison health and safety, you know the drill."

"I'm on a bit of a tight schedule," he replied. "Alright. But if it takes more than five minutes, I'll have to do it next time."

"It won't take long. Mind waiting in the office over there?" He pointed to the far corner. "I'll be right with you."

"No problem," the driver replied. When he was out of earshot, Jamal directed the boss into the back of the open lorry. It was dark, but they managed to navigate themselves to the boxes in the back.

"I've caught him moanin' 'bout schedules a couple of times," said Jamal. "He'll wait two minutes, get vexed and go."

"I hope you're right," said the boss, climbing behind a box.

"Not that one. Go to the back. The guards will inspect the lorry on the way out, but they're way too fuckin' lazy to search all the way to the back." They found themselves squashed at the back, but were completely hidden from view. When the guards shined a torch inside, they would see nothing.

Sure enough, the now-furious driver returned in under five minutes, cursing. He mumbled to himself about making sure _those _dickheads weren't here to meet him the next time, and that he was going to be late. The boss had always heard that talking to yourself was the first stage of madness. The driver checked inside briefly then locked the bolts on the back.

The boss and Jamal were absolutely silent as the lorry left Belmarsh. They knew to be absolutely still when they heard the driver complaining about being kept waiting to other murmured voices outside. From the sound of it, the gate guards were getting riled up themselves. The boss heard one remark that it was four in the fucking morning, and he didn't need this. But instead of cause a fuss, the driver swore under his breath and opened the back doors for inspection.

The boss saw torchlight pass near him. One of the guards climbed aboard. If he decided to do his job properly and search all the way to the back, it would be a month at least in solitary, and then more charges for the death of the poor fucker in the utility shed. But both him and Jamal breathed an inaudible sigh of relief when the guard's inspection was completed without even checking behind the first lot of boxes. Whatever he was being paid, it was too much. The back doors were then slammed shut, and the lorry kicked into motion once more.

"How do we get out?" the boss asked Jamal. He shot him a glance that said _wait and see_. He got up and moved to the back doors. He lifted the rubber sealant on the bottom of the door and observed the road through a thin strip, now exposed. He indicated for the boss to join him. They watched the road for about ten minutes until Jamal was satisfied the lorry was on the open road. Then, he punched the side of the lorry with full force three times.

The effect was instantaneous. The driver pulled over, and the boss heard one of the doors slam. Jamal gestured to hide again, further up, behind the boxes. He spotted something in the corner of his eye on the top of the nearest and largest crate; it was a crowbar, used to jimmy open the wooden seal. He handed it to the boss without explanation. Then, they ducked down.

The driver pulled open the back doors carefully, his face full of concern over what he'd dropped. He was probably worried about how much pay he would be docked if the larger food crates broke open, spoiling the food as it hit the dirty floor of his lorry. He shined a torch on their position, not seeing them yet. When he stepped further in, Jamal jabbed the boss, and pointed to the crowbar.

That was all the cue he needed. With a roar of anger, he sprung up from behind the crate. The driver let out a high-pitched scream of terror. He bore down on the man, koshing him over the head with the crowbar and knocking him straight down. While he lay prone, the boss drove the instrument onto his skull again, going for maximum damage. He brained the driver with around five hits, and what was left of his face wasn't human anymore. The lack of resistance told him that the fifth strike had killed him. His face was a macabre crater, and his skull was bleeding. If he had seen it with more light, it would have been a truly gruesome sight.

"I was gonna say put his uniform on," said Jamal, weakly, looking at the blood that was now seeping down his chest, "but it's probably alright. Okay, we have a van, and it'll be a few hours until there's an alert out for us. How do we get out of the country?"

"You leave that to me," said the boss, thrilled the first stage of his plan had worked.


	8. Chapter 8: The Invaders

**Chapter 8**

On the other side of the Atlantic, there was an equally complex arrangement being made. Pierce, Shaundi Matt and Oleg sat in the church's office room, poring over a series of maps and blueprints.

"This is totally necessary," said Shaundi. "This is a great base to hide out. Or at least it was. Now, we need something bigger."

Pierce stared out of the office window and onto the balcony. Below, in the main part of the church, a large crowd of True Saints were idling time away. He nodded. The rebels' ranks were beginning to swell. The death of Angel had had a strange knock-on effect on membership. The loyalists hiding themselves in Viola's ranks assumed they would be next, so defected quickly and publicly. Others who did not have an agreement with Shaundi defected nonetheless, shocked by what they saw as the cold blooded murder of a general. Many didn't know Angel had been an informer, and that he had shot first. Viola had told the true version of events for once, but her lieutenants were afraid. The mass-defections had not made a serious impact on Viola's manpower, but it had drastically affected Shaundi's.

"Attacking and occupying a stronghold is an incredibly risky tactic," said Oleg. "Our primary advantage thus far has been secrecy. The second we occupy somewhere, we paint a huge red flag. With the amount of damage we have done to Viola already, she will spare no expense in striking back. With the type of firepower she possesses, the odds of successfully holding anywhere would be hundreds to one."

"Never tell me the odds, Oleg," Shaundi said.

"Oh my God," said Pierce. "I can't believe you got a chance to say that!"

"Now, the Burns Hill reactor is perfect," said Shaundi, running a finger over one of the maps. "It's built like a fortress anyway. Thick, high walls around the perimeter. There are entrances, but we can block those off with cars, barbed wire and shit. Once we've got the reactors locked down, we can protect from all angles. Four guys on the roof at all times. Two guys with McManus rifles for sniping Viola's boys, two with Annihilator launchers in case they try to hit us from the air. Then, if they manage to smash through and storm the place, we can fight them head on."

"That's thinking tactically," said Matt, admiringly. "And we can give ourselves an advantage. Burns hill can be isolated from Saint hotspots if I freeze the bridges up. Kinzie will be able to put them back down after a couple of hours, but before then, land troops won't be able to reach us. Hopefully, all of the Saints stationed in and around Burns Hill and around the reactor when we attack, that way we don't need to worry about attacks when we go for food. We'll need to stock up on food. After the bridges are back up and the island gets swarmed, they'll make getting out of there tricky. Any cars that leave will be pounced on. They'll shoot down any helicopters."

"So we're trapped?" Pierce questioned. "Why do we wanna do that?"

"You ever hear of the rope-a-dope, Pierce?" asked Shaundi. "Viola's gonna freak when word gets out we took the reactor. It supplies their power. Back when we were in charge, the reactors powered the casinos, the headquarters, everything. They'll have to switch back to the mains, costing way more. Viola will want to grab it back as soon as she can, even if it means drawing dudes from everywhere. If we can hold out, we'll be able to push as far as we want. Even to her HQ."

"And if we, uh, can't hold out?" asked Matt nervously.

"Then we're fucked, Matt," said Shaundi, matter-of-factly. "Once we take the reactor, there's no backing out. If you're having second thoughts, now's really the time to back out."

"I'm in all the way," he said, firmly.

* * *

><p>Mike Sharpe hated guard duty at night. Burns Hill had turned very cold, and as he breathed, his breath rose like smoke in front of him. He shivered and rolled a cigarette.<p>

"Shoulda worn a goddamn jacket, crazy fool," said Sasha Lucas, his 'watch buddy', grinning. She pulled her lapels. "I could walk in fuckin' Alaska with this."

"You see anything?" he asked her. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he didn't think was due to the out of date tacos he had eaten before starting work.

"Nope. Can't see shee-yit with all this fog." She focused her eyes along the road outside the reactor gates. The darkness obscured the Burns Hill skyline completely. What was not totally obscured, however, was the set of headlights just beyond the gate.

"Probably lost," Sasha said, but she felt the gun in her pocket all the same. She moved forward to check, but before she could react, she heard the revving of an engine. The car behind the headlights sped through the arch into the compound. It knocked Mike down with brutal force. Sasha prepared to blast the driver, but she was debilitated by an unbearable pain. The SMG had torn through her, sending her kicking and screaming out of her mortal coil. Pierce, Shaundi, Matt and Jean jumped out of the car, and Jean put a bullet in both Mike and Sasha's heads to ensure they were dead. Three more cars came afterwards with Oleg and the rest of the gang. The invasion force drove the cars in front of the arches to block off a Saint counterattack.

There were several guards nearer the entrance to the main power plant, and they ran towards Shaundi and the others. They were sprayed with pistol shots and shotgun rounds, dead before they could even raise an alarm. There was firepower coming from every angle, and no guard had the opportunity to raise the alarm.

"Pierce, you take charge sealing up the exits," said Shaundi by the main door. "Matt, how close do we need to get you to the mainframe to take complete control of the place's facilities?"

"There's a server room on the ground floor," he replied. Wordlessly, they entered, flanked by Oleg and two dozen True Saints. There were five Saints inside the lobby, and they were caught by surprise. This time, the hail of bullets only came from one direction, and one of the men managed to raise the alarm. A shrieking sound came from all angles. Shaundi gritted her teeth.

"Shit, they know we're here."

"The server room is just up ahead," said Matt. They crossed through the ground floor, scanning for Saints. The alarm had drawn an immediate beacon towards them. The elevator opened, and five thugs spilled out, armed with shotguns.

Oleg sprung into action. He roared so savagely that it positively terrified the reactor's defenders. He sprung forward towards the elevator and piled into the five men before their shotgun hands had finished shaking. He grabbed one man's head and violently smashed it into the wall, a long stream of blood following him down as he sunk. He disabled the next man with an uppercut that knocked him fully unconscious. He then forcefully wrestled the shotgun from the third man's grasp and shot the remaining three men on a quick reload. By the time his uncontrollable rage subsided, Shaundi, Matt and the others had made it to the server room. Matt was already cracking the mainframe.

"They...were Saints," he said, out of breath. "I fought alongside them."

"It was you or them," Shaundi replied, kindly. Oleg stared out of the door and saw that ten more Saints had made their way to the ground floor, this time down the stairs. The attackers took cover in the corners of the room, leaning out of the dour and shooting. They took one man by surprise and shot him in tandem, hearing the pained sob he made as the life left him. The rest of the defenders took cover behind some of the support pillars.

"I'm in," said Matt. "We don't have to face a united front. He tapped a line of code and Shaundi heard a chime. "I've locked down all floors. I'll unlock each one as you cross it. The others will be trapped until we're ready to fight them. Don't worry about the engineers, they just keep the place running. It's just the gangsters you need to worry about."

"Can you get a message out?" asked Shaundi, trying to get a clear shot at the soldiers outside.

"Sure. What do you wanna say?" he said, pulling a microphone over to her side. Shaundi leaned into it.

"This place belongs to the True Saints now. This is Shaundi. If you've got loyalty to me or Pierce remaining, please join us. Otherwise, you'll have a chance to surrender and leave with your life."

"I can see all floors' CCTV here. If you want to join us. Hold a sign up saying so and we'll unlock your floor. If you surrender, same deal. We don't want to rush you, but we can only give you ten minutes."

"That's good, Matty," said Shaundi. Calling out to the men in the main lobby, she said, "You heard him. Fight with us! Or run back to Viola with your tail between your legs?"

"Your boys killed my brother," one man shouted back. "I'm a kill you motherfuckers!"

"Warned you," said one of the True Saints, and shot him in the face. The other men tried to scamper back, and were cut down. Oleg and the others filed out, making sure there were no more Saints waiting for them.

"It's clear out here," Oleg called into the server room. "Matthew, any word from upstairs?"

"The engineers just don't want to be shot," Matt called back. "They say they'll do what we want. Most of the Saints are up in the penthouse."

"Do they surrender?"

"No...they held a sign up as well, but...it wasn't polite."

"They had their chance," said Shaundi. "They'll be watching the elevators. I saw we take it up the last-but-one floor, then go up the stairs."

"Good plan." They filed out, leaving Matt and two bodyguards in the server room. Within twenty minutes, they had assembled just below the top floor. All in all, the invasion force consisted of around twenty True Saints.

The fighting began in earnest as soon as they reached the penthouse area. The massive room was well defended, and the weak shot of pistol fire was replaced with the stronger roar of machine guns. Shaundi and the others filed out into the corner of the room by the stairs and elevator. For several minutes, the room was torn apart by gunfire. Jean Augustine stepped out too far and took a fatal burst of machine gun fire to the face, letting out a guttural groan as he went down. On the other side of the room, several Saints were lying in pools of blood. The defenders were down to around ten.

Shaundi sprinted forward with a surge of energy. She vaulted over one of the sofas near the middle of the room, guns ablaze, and crouched behind the counter. A Saint tried to run forward and she put two rounds into his skull. She bared her teeth and grabbed a clear bottle from the shelf. She tore a strip from her shirt and stuffed it into the bottle. Then, with a quick movement, she grabbed her lighter and lit the cloth, throwing the finished product at the Saints.

The result was instantaneous. The ten men separated in a blind panic, trying to avoid the fiery death that seemed irrelevant. This break from cover proved all Shaundi's boys needed, and they riddled them with gunfire. Their victims tried to crawl for cover, but within ten seconds, they lay in a horrific pool of cartilage.

"You'll burn the fuckin' place down!" said one of the attackers.

"No I won't," Shaundi replied calmly. The bottle had smashed on contact with the ground, and the fuse had reached the liquid inside. And, with a brief gurgle, the flame died out.

"What the...this is water! You need booze for a Molotov!"

"Don't you think I know that?" she replied, arrogantly. "But they dived all over the place like crazy. Thought I'd let you do your jobs. For once."

Oleg turned to the CCTV camera. "Mister Miller, we're done here. Are there any remaining hostiles on the lower floors?"

"No," said the voice over the tannoy. "Everyone's surrendered. They're down here with us now."

"Guess that means we're in control," said Shaundi. "Good work!"

They set about fortifying the place fully in the next few hours. It was the early hours of the morning, and there wouldn't be anyone to carry the message. The first indication the Saints would get would be just before dawn, when the early shift workers in the Three Count casino would realise the power was down. With no one in command answering their cellphones at Burns Hill, they would soon realise what happened.

Matt managed to upgrade the reactor's security in a matter of hours, putting the whole place under a high-level lockdown. The engineers would doubtlessly complain about needing authorisation to go through the elevators, but it was necessary in case a shock attack succeeded. Once he was satisfied, he closed the bridges to the rest of the city.

There was an Eagle helicopter parked on the helipad. Some of the men wanted to bring a carpenter back up to fix the bullet-wrecked penthouse room, but Shaundi refused, saying that a working helicopter was more important than a comfortable living area.

By five AM, the place was locked down more tightly than Fort Knox. Shaundi and the others began to get anxious. Soon, Viola would get a sharp awakening. Each man and woman, from gangsters to engineers, held their breath.

At a quarter past six, a call came through. It disrupted the uneasy silence with a jolt, causing everyone in the penthouse to jump slightly. With a brief hesitation, Shaundi picked it up.

"What?"

"Hello, Shaundi," said an icy cold voice on the other end. Viola was clearly in an advanced state of rage. Shaundi's face contorted slightly with the suppressed fury her enemy was showing.

"Oh, hi there, Vi" she replied, regaining her composure. "You'll have to excuse me, I was just mopping up the remains of your best and brightest. It's real thirsty work, so thanks for leaving the Dom Perignon. Am I saying that right? Oh well, who gives a fuck?"

"Listen to me very carefully, Shaundi," said Viola. "I'm not going to bluff and say that place isn't important to me. It is. That's why I'm giving you an amnesty. If you agree to take your cretins, get out of my reactor and crawl back to the hole you came from, I swear I'll tell my men not to open fire as you come out."

"Naw, I think I like it here," Shaundi replied.

"Alright, then let me explain to you what's going to happen. Kinzie is going to have the bridges open within a couple of hours, if the police don't do it sooner. Then, a whole fucking army is going to come and take my reactor back. Do you understand?"

"Bring it, Viola." She hung up the phone.


	9. Chapter 9: The Fox

**Chapter 9**

_A/N: This chapter, at least the first part, is pretty dry, but it's really hard to write sieges. Also, I realise that Donnie, the minor OC I made, shares a name with the guy from 1 and 2. That's my bad, and they're two different guys. Thanks to CertainUncertainty who convinced me to finish! Couple of chapters left to go._

Viola's forces came to retake the reactor sooner than Shaundi had expected. Shaundi had known that when STAG left Steelport, the Saints had secretly requisitioned some of their technology, but she was still surprised when the first things that came from the Loren Square district were three N-Forcers repainted in dark purple. Each had a Saint in the bird's nest, operating a machine gun. They appeared over the horizon like dark omens, not even pausing before speeding towards the reactor compound. There were several cars that blocked the entrances, and while the N-Forcers lacked the pure power to dislodge them, they peppered through them with machine gun fire. There were only a few True Saints in the primary compound, and they were well in cover. From the top floor, the assembled snipers on the helipad managed to pick off all of the soldiers operating the machine guns. Ibrahim Khan managed to shoot a driver, and had the pleasure of seeing his head pop like a disgusting fruit from the scope. He wasn't the best sniper to ever grace the ranks of the gang, but he was a pretty damn good shot. The others operating the McManus rifles were holding their own also.

Pierce had wanted to open the barricades and bring the N-Forcers inside, but that would have proved fatal. As soon as the guns stopped firing, the next wave of attackers arrived. The Saints had sent two brutes in pickups along with thugs to pin the defenders down. Working in a clumsy, shambling tandem, the brutes managed to smash through the car barricade on the southern side of the compound. The snipers sprung into action, raining down a hail of high power bullets. The brutes brushed them off. Ibrahim was being cleverer than that, though; he diverted his gaze from the behemoths and aimed for the gas tank on a now thoroughly-smashed Infuego. He hit it square on from that incredible height, and it exploded, taking the cars around it and the two brutes with it. Even their solid frame could not withstand such a force.

The defenders swarmed around the now-exposed entrance, trying to trap the remaining Saints in a bottleneck through the gateway. Donnie Strauss threw a Molotov cocktail, and the attackers dispersed as it fell. Those who it hit writhed around on the ground, trying to extinguish themselves and being finished off by a double tap each. Their comerades who had backed off made another push for the entrance, and were fought off with knives and pistols.

"Viola must have bribed the whole SPD to stay away," Shaundi declared. When a break in the fighting came, she directed some of the stronger troops to haul the burned out cars back in front of the opening. It was done so with great difficulty. Pierce had the idea to booby trap the burnouts with satchel charges, and they got on it, with barely any time to spare. Two more brutes arrived outside, as well as an army to back them up. The True Saints backed up, ready to use the satchel charges. Thankfully, the brutes attacked in tandem again, smashing away at the burnouts with brute force. Once all of the defenders had backed away, Pierce pressed the detonator, and the brutes were knocked off their feet. One was clearly dead, but the other managed to make its way to its feet. It shambled towards the wreckage of the now-pulverised burnouts, passing through it and knocking several defenders out of his way.

Oleg sprang into action. He bore down on his clone, grasped its head and, with an almost insane level of physical strength, twisted it. A truly sickening cracking sound was heard, and the scene resembled the Exorcist, with the beast's surprised, pained features drooping over its shoulder blades. Oleg pushed the now lifeless form to the ground.

"Clones," he said with a dry contempt. "They can replicate the strength, but they'll never copy the years of Spetsnaz training."

They didn't have long to reflect on this. With the burnouts now mere rubble, the Saints were scrambling past them and making their way inside the compound. The snipers picked them off as they did, and Ibrahim was proud to bag one who looked like a lieutenant, but there were too many. The True Saints dived into cover behind the fountains and the masonry, trying to mow down their shock troops. The attackers tried to branch out also, but suppressing fire forced them into a single mass again.

That was when Donnie threw the grenade. Marcus Fernandez, a guy he'd known back in Stillwater, had carried it, but Marcus was now lying in a pool of his own blood. Donnie grabbed it, pulled the pin out and sent it rolling into the now-thick crowd of Saint attackers.

It was a hellish scene. The grenade rolled right into the middle of the mob, and the damage it caused was astounding. Limbs were thrown up ten feet in the air like a grotesque, visceral fireworks display, and blood splashed all over the concrete. The pained screams had been drowned out by the audio residue of the blast, and now they were completely silent. Donnie looked on in both shock and disgust.

"Damnit, Strauss," said Pierce, admiringly. "You a cold-ass motherfucker."

"You did what you had to," said Shaundi, seeing the sheer revulsion on his face. "That was too many for us."

"I believe we have a rest period before the next attack," said Oleg, thoughtfully. "Viola is intelligent enough to leave the biggest force until the last stage of a siege. It's the most logical thing to do. We just killed the standing army."

"Then who's left?" asked Shaundi.

"Reserves," he replied. "Viola will go to Safeword and the Three Count looking for those to man the next wave."

"Then let's get ready for them," said Pierce.

* * *

><p>They had reached Dover in less than two hours, while the sun was still rising. They had broken into the docks where a cargo ship was being loaded with crates. It was called the <em>Hercule, <em>a medium-sized cargo trawler travelling to Calais. They snuck into a crate carrying smaller boxes, nestling where there was the most space.

The pallet-truck operator had been found, and as the Herculepassed out of sight of the white cliffs, the prison went on high alert for the only two prisoners not on roll call. Within an hour, the alarm would be spread to the rest of the country, and the boss's and Jamal's faces would be plastered on every television, every newspaper and every police bulletin. That didn't matter now, though; once they were in France, everything would work out for them to get back to America.

"I thought 'a something" Jamal whispered when they were far out enough. "Ain't we just gonna get nicked in France when they open these things?"

"No," the boss replied, shortly.

"Why?"

"Did you see the company logo on this crate?" he asked, still whispering in case any of the crew were nearby. "Ajaccio Shipping. Ajaccio is a front organisation for the Corsican mafia."

"The who?" Jamal demanded.

"The Corsican mafia," he repeated. "If you've ever snorted coke or injected smack in Paris, you've put money in this lot's pockets. They're one of the most powerful organisations in Europe, and they deal in absolutely fuckin' everything. We tried to set up a shipping route with them to bring heroin from Turkey right into Stillwater, but they said the Midwest wouldn't be cost effective." He shrugged, as if avoiding regret for a drug deal that never was. "They're probably shipping some shit back to Paris for a bulk sale. Which also means they have one of their people unloading for 'em. We just have a word with them."

"And say what?" Jamal asked.

"You leave that to me, mate. If you're gonna be a Saint, you have to trust your boss."

They did not need to see out of the crate to know when they had hit Calais. Before, the main sounds had been the sea and the noises of the sailors nearby. Now, these were drowned out by port announcements, traffic and the hum of human voices all around. They were breathless for what seemed like an hour, then the doors of the crate swung open.

"_Merde!" _cursed the man under his breath as he shined the torch over the two stowaways. He was indisputably a thug; he had a crudely-drawn snake tattoo that stretched straight from his neck around his face, its head sprouting just over his right eyebrow. A jet black bomber jacket concealed a truly fearsome torso. A man didn't build muscle like that in a gym; he built it breaking spines and twisting necks until they let go with a sickening _crack. _

He began to shout in heavily accented French, jabbing his finger in the duo's direction and glaring threateningly. Unusually for the boss, he put his hands out in a calming gesture, trying to placate the gigantic Corsican before he alerted the entire dock to their presence.

"Parlez vous...sprechen ze…English?" he asked, trying to cobble together the French (and German) he'd learned throughout his relatively short, violent existence. The man did not seem to _parlez vous, _but continued howling French obscenities and gesturing.

"Don't suppose you know any?" the boss asked Jamal, exasperated.

"Not since school," his sidekick replied, stressed. "Uh…bibliotheca? Fromage? Anglais?"

"Anglais?" said the man, suddenly calming down. He faced off against the two convicts, but in a much more relaxed pose. "Non Anglais. Mon ami Jacques parlez Anglais." He called out to another one of the dockworkers. "Jacques!"

Another man, presumably Jacques, arrived in front of the crate. He was, if possible, even bigger than his friend, a mountain of a man with a word in Arabic tattooed all the way across his shoulder and neck. He was also completely bald, making the effect even more intimidating, and wore a dark suit.

"Are you English, gentlemen?" he asked in a remarkably polite tone. "Did my, how you say, _colleague _hear you right?"

"That's right, mate," said the boss, stepping forward and extending a hand. Jacques shook it. "We've stowed away from Dover. We're convicts. Prisoners. Escaped. Do you understand?"

"But you hitched a ride in the wrong crate, _mon ami_, you see? You have no idea of the trouble you are in."

"I think I've got a good idea how much," he said, calmly, shooting Jamal a look that told him to keep calm. "Do I get a request? Before justice is done?" Without waiting for the docker to respond, he continued. "I want to see _Le Renard."_

Jacques seemed genuinely taken aback. He exchanged a glance with the other obelisk next to him, and an understanding seemed to wash over them. Jamal stared at the boss, and the look he returned told him to say nothing. After the two Corsicans conferred in hushed French for a moment, they gestured for the two criminals to get out of the crate.

Their eyes took a moment to adjust to the bright light of the port. The boss had never been to Calais before, and while he was told it was one of the uglier harbour towns in northern France, it still possessed a charm of its own. Tall, attractive stone structures rose over the ugly grey tower blocks, shielding the uglier side of the city from the view of the English Channel. Freighters, hovercrafts and charter ships clustered around the port enclosure. The sun beat down over the busy commercial scene, making the boss long for the hot summers of Steelport. No, fuck that, _Stillwater._ The winters were as cold as anywhere in the Midwest, but the summers were something else. If he ever got back to America, he was going to enjoy his free time a hell of a lot more.

They were escorted off the ship and to a car park nearby, where a black Volvo C30 awaited them. Jacques began to drive, whereas their first point of contact, who they learned was named Francois, sat next to them. A slightly smaller man got in the passengers' seat.

"Hey, Monsieur," Jacques called back before he took off. "You are sure you want to see Le Renard? Last chance!"

"I'm sure," he called forward, flatly. The car took off along the congested Calais roads, Jacques swearing under his breath (in English, bizarrely) at the amount of traffic. Jamal stared demandingly at the boss, but he kept his voice down as his mentor's gazes had told him he should.

"What's the Renard?" he asked, nervously. Jacques heard him from the front seat, but merely smiled, and gestured for the boss to answer his question.

"_The Fox,_ he replied." It's French." As his protégé's gaze became more inquiring, he continued. "The Fox is Santino Tramont. He leads the Corsican mafia in the north of France. He's a big swinging dick as far as France is concerned. No, scratch, that, where fucking _western Europe _is concerned.

Jamal seemed content to clam up after that as they drove to Le Renard. The Corsican Mafia was, he _didn't _explain, one of the most powerful criminal organisations on the continent. Corsica was a small island, French in name but half Italian in culture, but its most powerful (and most wanted) citizens were among the richest in the criminal underworld. Films like _A Prophet _or the _French Connection _had tried to describe their illegal activities, but they had fallen short at portraying the ruthlessly efficient and even bureaucratic ways the Corsicans did business. Their heroin importing business started with Mehmet Khan, a Pashtun warlord in Afghanistan whose militia controlled one of the biggest poppy farms in the country. Khan's allies brought the heroin to Egypt, where the Corsicans used their considerable clout to have massive amounts of the stuff shipped, hassle free, to France, England, and the United States. As Stillwater and Steelport were in the Midwest, miles from the coast, the Saints dealt coke from the Cartels that pushed the stuff from Mexico. But they knew the Corsicans well, as any major operation did.

After around an hour's drive, they reached the old town of Boulogne-sur-Mer, Le Renard's capital. It was a beautiful medieval walled city, full of classic architecture and deep reaching cobbled streets. The old town's cathedral rose far over the tops of the buildings, overlooking the place. By the time they arrived, it was late afternoon, and the streets were splattered with rain.

They pulled into a street off the main strip, and the three men ushered the boss and Jamal into a chateau near the end of the street. The inside corridor was decorated beautifully, with chandeliers and paintings of French nobles that the boss had never heard of. They were led into a small sitting room, where a man got out of a leather armchair to greet them.

Le Renard matched any human definition of a fox that was possible. He had a wiry, cunning face, with eyes that were affable but seemed to pierce through the soul on first contact. He was a slim, olive-skinned man in his fifties, whose jet black hair was slicked back with plenty of pomade. He wore a dark grey three-piece suit, with a handkerchief in the breast pocket to complete the look. Jamal could see his face in the man's wingtips. Overall, there didn't seem to be a single thing about the man that was out of place. He reminded the boss of a clean shaven Jean Reno, or some impossibly cool Mediterranean shipping magnate.

"Bonjour, gentlemen," he said, extending a hand. Jamal and the boss shook it with an air of worship. "I believe you asked for me personally. _Le Renard_ is at your service."

"It's an honour," said the boss, with more humility than his younger associate (or any of his other associates) had heard him express.

"I recognise you," said the Corsican. "You are the Englishman in America, _oui? _The Saints of Stillwater…no, Steelport. I must correct myself, I barely keep up with affairs on the other side of, how you call it, the _pond, _oui? But I must ask. What were you and your young friend here doing hitching a ride on one of my crates?"

He ushered them into chairs facing his own, and the boss told him in detail about the events that had occurred since his exile from Steelport. The Fox listened with wide eyed interest. When the story was finished, he called for three brandies.

"Zut alors," he said softly. "You spin, how do you say, quite the yarn. It seems imperative that you return to your city. But while a respect must exist between fellow…businessmen such as ourselves, with all due respect, we are not a charity. Why should I help you?"

"Because," said the boss, leaning forward, "I oversaw the killing of the Belgian."


	10. Chapter 10: The Eleventh Hour

**Chapter 10**

The boss had, in his various high-profile blood feuds with the most psychotic gangsters in America, learned never to start a rivalry without learning as much as possible about a particular enemy. Philippe Loren and the Morningstar were no exception to this rule. As it turned out, there was a lot more to the Belgian that met the eye.

Before his exodus to America, Loren had headed a particularly vicious Walloon criminal organisation. Nothing as refined as the Morningstar or the Syndicate; they were professional killers, thugs and habitual criminals, with a vicious way of dealing with their enemies that involved sawn-off shotguns and pliers. In the early 1980s, they had made a play for control of the Parisian underworld, which had been a direct affront to the Corsicans and their heroin trade. The feud between the two organisations had quickly become heated, with deaths on each side. By 1985, the Corsican leaders in Ajaccio were promising to name their _first born sons _after the man who could kill the most members of the Belgian sect, and especially Loren himself. To avoid certain death, he and several of his fellow gang members fled to America. They would form the Morningstar, and then meet up with two powerful wrestlers (who would later become worst enemies) to form the Syndicate. The Corsicans had seen off the challenge, but Loren would always be marked for death.

"I don't think you understand the seriousness of what you're saying," said Tramont. "You must understand that the man who kills, or is responsible for the killing of Philippe Loren will be forever a friend of our people. So much so that if, for example, one of your taxi drivers in Steelport was to accidentally run him down, he would spend the rest of his days on a gigantic estate in the Adriatic, surrounded by Balkan sex slaves."

"I understand," said the boss.

"And if someone were to mislead us about whether or not he killed the Belgian pig, we would not take kindly to it. Not in the least. His death would not be a quick one."

"I know that," said the boss, as Jamal looked around in horror. "I wouldn't make the claim if I hadn't made it 'appen. I done the bastard. Truth."

The Fox studied him carefully. "I will have to verify this. Don't worry; my sources are always correct. If you are telling the truth, I will see you taken back to America in the finest luxury imaginable. This is agreeable to you?"

"Absolutely," said the boss. And they shook on it.

* * *

><p>Viola's mood had taken a turn for the worse.<p>

It had been two days since the initial assault on the power plant, and even though she had thrown an incredible force at the much smaller True Saints, they had held the fort. Soon enough, Burns Hill would be sewn up by the enemy, and what then?

_Then,_ she thought, _they'll cross over the bridges and grab Safeword out of my hands. Or the Three Count. Before long, they'll be banging on my door._

As these very private thoughts made her face contort into an expression of rage, Kinzie looked at her, concerned. The two of them were alone in the penthouse of the Saints' headquarters.

The tension was broken by Zimos arriving in the elevator. He seemed flustered, uncommonly so for for the usually cucumber-cool pimp. He gave Viola a thumbs up.

"Hello-ladies," he sang. "Viola-the-choppers-are-ready-the-pilots-are-just-gassing-them-up-now."

"Choppers?" asked Kinzie, cautiously. "This is the first I'm gearing. What's going on?"

"This is it, Kinz," said Viola, forcefully. "I thought things were screwed, but if we've got a fleet, we've got a chance. We're going to launch an aerial assault on the power plant and seize the penthouse. They won't stand a chance."

"I think that's a bad idea," Kinzie replied. "Even if a squad of guys managed to take the penthouse, they still have to fight their way down through the building. Capturing the place would be a nightmare."

"That's why it's only the tail end of the plan," said Viola. She paused, as if considering how to phrase her next words. "We're going to have to make sure the building's completely undefended. Thin the numbers and drive everyone upstairs. What I was thinking is that you could get the bridges between Burns Hill and Arapice Island lifted. The zombies will swarm to where there's a lot of people, which means the reactor, eventually."

"You're not serious," said Kinzie, her voice shaking. "That's mass murder. Thousands of people would be eaten alive. Burns Hill would be a dead zone!"

"Kinz-I-know-this-sounds-kinda-extreme-but-we-ain't-got-a-lotta-options," sang Zimos.

"I'm deadly serious, Kinzie," replied Viola. "The other guys kill innocent people all the time. The Saints always have. What makes this any different?"

"The boss was a remorseless killer," said Kinzie, slowly, "but he'd never be as twisted as to do something like this. A quarter of a city. Dead. Deliberately, from one sequence of code."

"Well, I'm your boss now, and this is how I choose to end this feud." Without warning, she pulled a gun from her waist. "But if your conscience is troubling you, then I'll gladly take the pressure away. Open the bridge to Burns Hill, or I'll paint the desk with your brains."

Kinzie, quite defiantly, stood up. But instead of telling Viola to go to hell, she started to pace, the weight of her decision bearing down on her. She mumbled to herself in a voice Viola could not understand, reasoning with herself. Viola let her pace, knowing that if she decided to raise the bridges, she could have what she wanted and keep a good lieutenant. When she stopped, she was on the far side of the room, leaning on the wall.

"I thought going with you would be the best choice, Vi," she said, finally. "I didn't think you were twisted as this, and I thought you were smart. You are twisted, and you're not smart."

"The hell are you talking about?" Viola demanded.

"Well, if you were, you would have seen this coming." She leaned off the wall and Viola saw that she had been pushing the elevator button. The side of the room she had paced to housed the elevator. Its doors opened and before Viola could raise her gun, she had tumbled inside.

The elevator sped towards the basement garage in a matter of seconds. If Viola wasn't so blown away by her subordinate's guile, she would have had the presence of mind to send a message over the intercom to halt the elevator, but she didn't. Luckily, by the time she had collected her thoughts enough to scream her desertion over the intercom, Kinzie was out of the garage, driving away. She wasn't going to participate in something do unthinkable, she would never be able to sleep at night again. No way. When she was far enough away from the Saints' penthouse, she pulled over, took out her phone and accessed Killswitch. It was an app she had designed herself. She pressed a few buttons and a signal was sent to her laptop. Her entire virtual presence would be remotely wiped. All of her files, all of her access codes, they would be gone in an instant. Viola had other hackers that could breach the controls to the Arapice Island bridges, but they were not to her standard, and would take days. In the meantime, she had to warn Shaundi and the others. If Viola did manage to open the bridges, it would be the True Saints, not the police or the army, that would have to fight them off. The sheer lack of response to the siege told her they weren't at all ready for what was happening to the city.

"Come on, Shaundi," she said, softly. "Pick up." But the phone went straight to voicemail. She dialled Pierce and got the same response. They were obviously in one of the parts of the reactor most lined with lead. There was nothing for it; she would have to visit the True Saints in person. She was sure they would appreciate her help - if they didn't shoot her on sight.

She headed to the northwest, wanting to avoid the traffic that usually clustered around the raised bridges to Arapice Island. Traffic was heavy, but she navigated it like a professional. She might have been a computer geek, but she was still a Saint, damnit, or at least in the original sense of the word. Saints ignored the rules of the road, and if a traffic cop didn't like that, then it was too fucking bad.

Kinzie had reached Salander by the time she hit the wall of traffic. It wasn't even rush hour, but the road was totally gridlocked. If she pushed through or even smashed through the last line of cars, she would meet nothing but solid resistance. She swore under her breath, panicking. She hoped she had done enough damage to Viola's plans by blanking her files, but the truth was, some of her hackers could probably crack it within an hour. Viola had recruited some turncoat Deckers, and while they were not a patch on her, they were pretty damn good.

Her thoughts were interrupted by an incredibly loud sound from overhead. She got out of the car, looked up and recoiled in horror. Flying around a hundred feet above the streets of Steelport was a miniature air force. Kinzie counted five helicopters flying in a close formation, with an F69 VTOL in the middle of them. All Viola needed was to play Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries and this would be straight out of Apocalypse Now, with the skyline of Steelport acting as the Vietnamese jungle. The Saints were ready for all out war.

Frantically, Kinzie tried to redial Pierce, Shaundi and Oleg. It was to no avail; all three must have been within the main sector of the plant. That would at least give them an edge over Viola. Whoever was in the penthouse would be swamped, but the Saints would have trouble making their way down.

* * *

><p>Sadly, Kinzie was wrong about why none of the others were not answering their phones. They were, in fact, planning their next move from the penthouse, as well as periodically scanning for dangers on the ground. Even Oleg and Matt were there, linking up a new intercom system. Their phones, regrettably, were switched off; Matt had warned them iPhones especially were a cake walk to hack into remotely, and they could be used as eyes and ears for one of Viola's techies.<p>

It was Pierce who saw the ominous procession approach. The choppers and the VTOL blacked out the evening sun for a moment, and cast a shadow on the helipad and balcony as they began to hover. They meant serious business; he saw the thin outlines of high-calibre miniguns on the Eagles and the nib of the VTOL's infamous energy ray.

Shaundi, Oleg and the others joined him in diving behind the nearest piece of upturnable furniture. He shouted loud enough that the rest of the True Saints knew to dive under whatever they could.

The VTOL (that contained Viola) struck first. The beam of energy sprayed forth and cut through the glass of the penthouse wall. A gaping hole was left in it, with the penthouse exposed to the full force of the elements. The defenders inside took the cue to begin firing. Ibrahim and Joey Colerane, one of the other snipers, had still been cradling their sniper rifles even as they sat at the bar, and from their new vantage point behind the couch, they took their shots. Ibrahim's shot took out the pilot of one of the Eagles plain in the head, whereas Joey's hit the tail rotor. The chopper sunk, catching on the round side of the plant's outer structure as it went down. It didn't make much of a dent on the lead structure, but it immediately burst into flames. The other choppers opened fire on the two. Ibrahim managed to dive behind a pillar, but Joey was cut down. He screamed as the minigun rounds ploughed through him, turning him into a mess on the floor.

"We can turn any of you into Swiss cheese," said Viola, her voice broadcasting out of the VTOL. "Throw down your weapons. It's your only option."

Shaundi paused, and her face contorted with panic. "I think she's right! Go on…drop your weapons."

The others did so, reluctantly. Pierce stared daggers at Viola as he put his Desert Eagle on the ground. Shaundi was the last to do so. She put her revolver in front of her. The gang was completely cornered.

"Smart move," said Viola, barely able to control her glee. The VTOL and two choppers landed, and a well-armed group of Saints disembarked. They flanked Viola as they swarmed inside the building and confiscated the guns of their enemies. Two of them grabbed Shaundi and held her by the arms. Pierce leapt at them in rage, but three more restrained him. None of the Saints even tried to restrain Oleg, but they kept him at bay with their shotguns.

"You did well, Shaundi," said Viola, facing off against her nemesis. "For a while. But you're far too stupid to trade blows with me for too long. All of you are." She turned to face the Russian superman who had ten shotguns trained on him. "Except for you, Oleg. No, your problem is misplaced loyalty, not stupidity."

She turned to Matt Miller, who was, embarrassingly, being held by only one soldier. "Matty. You left Steelport to get away from the Saints. Why would you join them now?" He started to speak, but she cut him off. "You know what? I hardly care. That bitch Kinzie turned traitor, so I've got an opening for a techie. The pay's not bad, and you get to live." When he didn't speak, she shrugged. "I'll let you think about it."

She turned to her troops. "Get them out of here, then secure the rest of the building. If anyone gives you any resistance, kill 'em." She grabbed Shaundi by the hair. "You'll ride with me, Shaund. I don't want you wriggling away anywhere." The two Saints escorted the prisoner to the parked VTOL, where she was strapped in to one of the empty seats, unable to move.

Two more guards escorted Pierce and the others, at gunpoint, to one of the helicoptors. Oleg, due to his size, was lead into his own one. Some of the True Saints had surrendered, and were making their way to the top forlornly to join the ranks of those they had only recently shunned. From the sounds over the intercom, the remainders were being swarmed, and were losing. _The war, _thought Shaundi bitterly as the VTOL took off, _was over._


	11. Chapter 11: The Cavalry

_Quick a/n: this chapter won't make a lot of sense if you haven't played The Trouble with Clones. If you haven't, you should! It's good!_

**Chapter 11**

The traffic had taken far too long to clear.

It had been the gridlock to end all gridlocks. Really, anything could have caused it; the slow traffic around the Arapice bridges, the increase of powerful but slow military vehicles on the road in the wake of the Saints' various conflicts, or simple bad luck. But it had cleared just as Kinzie got a view of the helicopter formation returning to the Saints' headquarters. She saw the enormous shape of Oleg in the cargo hold of one, and immediately knew the worst had happened.

Instead, she instinctively raced to Burns Hill, just in case there was someone who had avoided Viola's onslaught that she could rally with. She drove even faster before, knowing that the police were too afraid to pull over _either side _of the Saints' civil war. It was a shame the two sides were fighting, really; their power far outweighed that of the SPD, and they could virtually take the city over if they applied themselves to it.

When she arrived at the power plant, it was in a scene of chaos. The last of the True Saints who did not surrender had turned the courtyard into the scene of their last stand against the Saints. There was a mass of purple, both light and dark, and she didn't come any closer for fear of being caught in the crossfire. Worse, the SPD had finally decided to pluck up the courage to stop the violent bloodbath taking place within their city. A Lockdown had pulled up, and around twenty SWAT members with riot shields were edging their way into the fray. It was a scene of absolute chaos, and what was more, the rebels were clearly losing.

The most shocking scene was, however, just outside of the compound gates. On a small knoll, two figures were watching the action in confusion, a man and a youth. Kinzie initially wrote them off as suburban looky-loos come to gawp at the urban battlefield that had been set up in their town. But one of the figures suddenly struck her as familiar, and as she approached them, she felt faint with the growing certainty of it.

It was him. Definitely him.

* * *

><p>The Corsicans had treated the boss and Jamal like royalty after the Fox's sources returned. The Saints had, indeed, killed Loren (well, a gigantic steel ball, but still) and that made them heroes. More importantly, the deed had warranted a favour of the type not usually asked. While Jamal had quietly suggested a gigantic yacht and a share in the heroin trade, the boss had only one request in mind. He wanted <em>ironclad <em>documentation for both of them so that they could return to Steelport, and the use of a private plane to do it in. A commercial airline would have done in terms of comfort, but there was always the chance they would be spotted as fugitives by security or even a fellow passenger. Their host had been more than happy to oblige.

"I must admit," he said as their flight was being readied, "I didn't have much in the way of respect for associations such as yours. I was aware the Belgian pig had a sizeable operation in America, but I didn't dream anyone would have the, how you say, clout to destroy it."

The plane they were being loaded into was a Snipes 57. It was a few years old, but it served the Corsicans as a private plane well. They were driven to a small airfield in the countryside surrounding Boulogne, where the pilot, a small Sardinian with a pencil thin moustache greeted them.

"Travel time is just over nine hours, gentlemen," he said in perfect English. "Don't you worry, I ain't never crashed no plane yet."

The boss nodded and threw his suitcase in the back of the plane. The Corsicans had given the two of them changes of clothes to minimise their appearance as convicts. They soared over the country, the farms, chateaus and small towns becoming ever more distant. By the time they reached the Atlantic, the brilliant blue was only barely visible under the cover of the clouds. As they made the Atlantic trip, they entertained themselves by playing cards, bantering about football (despite his eye-opening experiences, Jamal was still an incessant chatterer) and catching the in-flight film, which was _In the Loop. _The boss pointed out that Peter Capaldi was the only man that could get away with saying the word _cunt _more than him, and this made Jamal laugh. They hit the US a few hours later, and the pilot pointed to Liberty City below them, followed by miles and miles of country as upstate New York moulded into the Midwest. After just under nine hours, they were flying over Steelport.

"Home sweet home for you, innit?" said Jamal, conversationally. He was astonished to see the boss wipe a single tear from his eye as he gazed down on the city from the window. He didn't speak, but merely nodded.

"Been a while, huh," continued Jamal.

"Yep," he replied. "Been a while."

"America looks amazin' man, I ain't never going back to England, I-"

"Shut the fuck up," the boss interrupted. "Ruinin' the moment."

They parachuted out of the plane. Jamal had been keen to land somewhere and save his tired limbs, but the boss had explained that this was the best way to avoid detection. Their new identification would serve them well if they ran into any trouble, but it was best to avoid any suspicion.

As they parachuted down into the night sky, the boss saw an impressive fireworks display at the Burns Hill reactor on the horizon. He had been kept out of the loop since Pierce returned to Steelport, but he immediately reasoned that a fight was taking place. He pointed towards the buildings and leaned backwards to slow his drop and carry him further. Jamal did the same. They landed on a low store roof in Burns Hill, around a mile away. They climbed down the fire escape and stowed their parachutes in a dumpster. By now, it was the dead of night, and the street was virtually empty.

"We need to steal a car," said the boss, impassively.

"I dunno how to pick a car's lock," said Jamal. "Do you?"

"Nope." The boss walked towards a Churchill that was parked on the sidewalk. He took a rock from the ground in front of someone's yard and smashed the driver's door in. Within a few seconds, he had connected the necessary wires to hotwire the vehicle, and they drove it towards the reactor. As they watched the fight progress, dumbfounded, the boss heard a voice behind them.

"It is you!" said Kinzie, in shock. "I can't believe it!"

"K-Kinzie?" he replied, also in a state of shock. They ran to each other and hugged, eager to see each other. After a minute, the boss drew back.

"Wait a minute," he said, pointing a finger. "Pierce tol' me you've become all matey with Viola. You're a traitor!"

"Not anymore," said Kinzie, breathlessly. "We need to move. We're in danger, here."

They headed down the hill into a patch of woods near the suburban strips. She told him what had happened from Viola's side of the pond, ending on what Viola had demanded she do before she left. The boss's impassive poker face broke and he opened his mouth in surprise.

"Jesus," he said, softly. "You did the right thing, Kinz." Turning to his apprentice, he said, "this is Jamal, by the way. He helped me break out of Belmarsh."

"Whassup?" said Jamal, politely.

"Uh, hey," said Kinzie. Turning her attention back to the boss, she demanded, "what the hell happened to you?"

He told her, in turn, everything from when McGraw came to Steelport to the rendezvous with the Corsican mafia. She listened, open mouthed, and clearly impressed.

"I've heard all about that Fox guy," said Kinzie. "Something of an urban legend."

"He's an alright geezer," said Jamal. "Nice dude."

"Anyway," said the boss, indicating over to the melee going on over the hill. "What happened here?"

"Shaundi and the gang took the reactor. As the guns have stopped firing, I'd say Viola just retook it."

"What about the others?"

"Viola took them," she said, stressed. "I was driving over here to warn them and I saw Viola flying them away. They'll be at the headquarters by now."

"Shit, we need a plan," he said. "We need to bust in to the HQ and rescue the others. Was there anyone in the True Saints out of the reactor at the time? Anyone gathering reinforcements?"

"I wouldn't think so. We…I mean the Saints…threw everything at them as soon as the bridges were opened. They would have needed to keep everyone behind to defend the base." She strained her ears briefly. "And the guns have stopped firing, which means they've lost . We won't find any help in there."

"I have an idea," said the boss. "But you might not like it."

They got in Kinzie's car and drove further south, avoiding the increasing numbers of riot police that were heading towards the plant for a more brutal confrontation with Viola's Saints. They headed into Salander, where Kinzie's warehouse used to be, and drove on train tracks towards the train yard.

True to form, the Luchadores were sparring at the train yard when the three approached. They seemed to have lost their fighting spirit; the bouts were vicious, almost primal, but the wrestlers were going through the motions. The only people that had more to fear from Viola than the True Saints were the Luchadores; she would always remember them as the gang whose leader murdered her sister. If she did not have the True Saints to direct her fury, it was probable she would have devoted her energy to committing near genocide on Luchadores. Even now, their existence was a fragile one, and their numbers had massively shrunk.

Indicating for the others to stay back, the boss got out of the car and approached them. _El Santo Diablo,_ (the Devil's Saint, real name Ritchie Weyland) was sparring with a newer member. He was a powerful lieutenant who, in the gang's better times, had served just under Killbane. The boss guessed that, following Viola's pogroms, he was now more or less in charge.

"Motherfucker," said Weyland by way of surprise. Both he and his sparring partner stopped fighting briefly to gawk at the man approaching them. At the sight of a Saint, all of the gang squared up, ready to tear this intruder to their meeting limb from limb.

"You're supposed to be dead!" said another Luchador, pointing in terror. "They said you vanished into thin air!"

"Rumours of my death 'ave been greatly exaggerated," said the boss. Seeing blank expressions on the faces of the thugs, he shrugged. "Mark Twain? No? Ah, yah fuckin' plebs."

"So, you're alive," said Weyland, getting in his face. "What the fuck do you want? Coming here with…are they are your backup?" he demanded, pointing at Jamal and Kinzie further back.

"I came 'ere for your help," said the boss flatly, without raising his voice or pausing even slightly.

Weyland laughed, and the Luchadores joined him. "Our help? Why the fuck should we help you?" he demanded.

"Your worst enemy sent me into exile and took the crew over," said the boss, starting to pace. "It was a coup-de-fucking-tat, and a good one at that. Now I'm back, and I want what's mine. Plus, I want my mates back, and Viola's holding them prisoner. Now, as for why you should help me." He tutted, shaking his head in disgust. "Look at you. You're the _Luchadores, _for fuck's sake. I remember a time you was cock of the walk. Of course, you lost to me and mine a lot, because we're better, but you at least had a pair of bollocks between you. Now look at you! You're hiding out! The only reason you're here is because Viola doesn't know you lot spar here. I only knew because me an' my boys cleared you out of here, d'you remember? 'Course you fucking do. Anyway. If you help us rescue the rest of the Saints…the True Saints, that is…you can get your bollocks back. It'll be peace between the two of us. Lasting as long as you want. Or, if peace ain't on the agenda, war. But an honourable war, one where you get to claw your balls back. Your call."

There was a long pause. Weyland spoke up first. "I guess that makes sense. Whaddaya need us to do?"

The boss slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Good man. We're going to attack Viola's HQ head on. Anyone who resists will be shot down. We take out Viola and seize the penthouse."

Weyland turned to face his gang. "Luchadores! You heard all 'a that! That sound like a plan to you?"

There was nodded agreement, followed by lone cheers. Then, a group of wrestlers near the back began to roar with a shared anger. It caught on to the front, and the gang was united in roaring their collective rage. All together, it was one hell of a war cry. The boss smiled with genuine glee. The troops were ready.

"We got our trucks near the back," said Weyland, giving out a single battle roar along with his men. He went to his own car and fished out several AR-40 assault rifles, handing them to the boss and the others. "We can roll out whenever you're ready!"

"Leave it about half an hour," said the boss. "There's just one more stop I have to make."

He, Kinzie and Jamal drove southwards, to where a small row of suburban houses looked over the vast expanse of Lake Michigan. It was a pleasant neighbourhood; if you sat on your back porch on a warm afternoon, you could almost see the mainland in the distance. But the boss wasn't interested in the neighbourhood, only one house. The house nearest the end.

Jimmy Torbitson took a few moments to answer the door. As it was night, he was dressed in ludicrous tartan pyjamas, and looked groggy. When he saw the boss, he immediately perked up.

"Oh my god! H-hello!" he said, stuttering with star struck amazement. The boss had never meditated too deeply on why a middle class, potential Nobel Prize winner like Jimmy would idolise the lower class gangsters who had turned his city into a warzone. He would have thought Jimmy's heroes would include Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking or Luke Skywalker, but he had made his choice over his fanatical devotion. The boss didn't understand it, but if he said he didn't enjoy it, he would be lying.

"Ello, Jimmy. Hope it ain't too late, son."

"It's never too late!" Jimmy replied. "Come on! Can I make you guys some coffee, or?"

"Not really a social call, mate. This is Kinzie and Jamal. We need…we need to borrow Johnny."

"Oh, okay," he said, and ushered them in. When the door was shut, he spoke louder. "What happened to you? They said you vanished out of thin air! And the only guy I know in the gang apart from you is Pierce. He told me what was going on, but he told me to stay away! He said it was too dangerous for me!"

"He was right," said the boss. "I've been away, Jim. Thanks to Viola. If me and the others survive the night, I'll tell you all about it."

"Cool!" said Jimmy, barely able to contain his excitement. "Johnny's in here." They crossed into the front room and Kinzie and Jamal both drew back at the sight that greeted them. Pressing his gigantic frame into a small armchair, he was devouring a Freckle Bitch's jumbo bucket. In the darkness, he looked even more terrifying than usual.

"_What da fuck is that?" _hissed Jamal in a terrified voice. He and Kinzie were virtually _cowering _behind the boss and Jimmy.

"Hi, Johnny," said the boss.

"Heyyy…playahhh…." Johnny Tag grunted monosyllabically, smiling stupidly at the sight of the boss.

"I've been teaching him," said Jimmy, proudly. "He'll never be like the old Johnny, but I've tried to tell him all about his history. In a few months, he'll think he's Johnny Gat."

"Wait a minute," said Jamal. "I remember Johnny Gat. That's the geezer you ran the Saints with, innit? I thought you told me he died?"

"He did," said the boss. "Meet Johnny's biggest fan. He cloned his hero from the random shit he left around the place."

"You did?" said Jamal, staring at Jimmy. "That's amazin'!"

"Thanks," said Jimmy, virtually blushing. "Johnny's all yours. What do you need him for?"

"We're getting ready for the final battle," said the boss, solemnly. "I like to think with me there, we might get some people going back to the winning team. With Johnny there, we might get even more."

"Wow," said Jimmy. "Can, uh, can I come with you? Can I help?"

The boss surveyed him for a moment. "Pierce was right. It is far too dangerous for you. If you're brown bread, human cloning skips a few decades and I won't have a spare 'me' to nick a liver off of when the drinking gets me."

"And if I'm not…brown bread…I'll have done something that I can look back on proudly for the rest of my life. Please, can I come? Please?"

"Let the man come," said Kinzie.

"Okay," said the boss. "But it's going to be dangerous. Go upstairs, get changed and meet us out here."

He was out in less than five minutes, wearing a purple Saints sweatshirt and a baseball cap. If it wasn't for his glasses, he would look like the quintessential Saint homie. The boss handed him one of the spare AR-40s and Johnny Tag jumped on the back of his pickup. The two cars followed each other out of the street and towards the Saints' headquarters. The final battle was about to begin.


	12. Chapter 12: The Speech

_A/N: I think I let my lurid imagination get the better of me in the first bit, but I think it works to darken the tone._

**Chapter 12**

Shaundi had been kept in isolation ever since the flight group landed back on the penthouse helipad. She was kept in a small, windowless room, and was handcuffed to a chair. She had tried to use brute force and clever manoeuvring to free herself, but it was impossible. Besides, even if she could get out of the chair, the door was locked, and beyond it were armed guards keeping her friends.

Pierce had loyally refused to play ball, and so he was kept in the room next to her. Oleg was being restrained so that Viola's scientists could take his blood. Viola was very keen to resume cloning Brutes, so no time was wasted. The other rebels were kept under observation.

The door to her cell opened and Viola strode in, a gloating expression on her face. This was, Shaundi could see, exactly what she had wanted ever since her coup against the boss succeeded; her arch enemy at her mercy. Shaundi tried to keep all traces of fear out of her eyes as she made eye contact with Viola.

"You have to admit, I'm all about the consistency," said Viola as an introduction. "I told you I'd find you and make you wish you'd never been born."

"Yeah, ya did," said Shaundi, flippantly. "But right now the only thing I'm wishing for is that I couldn't smell your breath. What'd you eat for dinner? Garbage?"

Viola threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, you're funny, Shaund. Really funny. I almost regret that I'm going to take your sense of humour away from you."

"Yeah, yeah," said the prisoner. "Come on, then. The game's over. I guess you won. Do I get to pick how it happens? If so, I want a bullet in the head. The _back _of the head; that way, the last thing I see won't be your ugly face."

"A bullet?" asked Viola, sweetly. "Why do you think I want to kill you, Shaundi? If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it with the business end of a VTOL cannon pointed at you. No, I took great pains to see you brought here, alive. Wanna know why?"

"What the hell? I've got time. Apparently."

"Your rebellion wasn't a little thing," Viola said, leaning on the door as she talked. "No, it was a serious challenge to my authority and it cost the lives of some of my best men. A civil war is the worst thing to happen to a leader's approval; even if they win, they find themselves in trouble. What they need to do is send a message." Her eyes suddenly became intense as they locked into those of her captive. "When I was at Harvard, I loved history. My degree was in business, of course, but I loved history. Now, one guy who knew how to deal with a fallen enemy was Julius Caesar. 52 BC: Caesar invades Gaul. That's _France_, for someone with your education. He beats Vercingetorix, leader of the Gauls, who surrenders to him personally. What does he do? Does he give the chief a warrior's death? No! He doesn't want to make him a martyr. Instead, he has him taken to Rome in chains. A sideshow attraction to show just what happens to people that mess with the will of Caesar. Then you've got his cultural descendant, Cesare Borgia. 1500: he captures Caterina Sforza. He doesn't kill her, he _rapes _her and locks her up. As a warning to any others that might oppose him."

"There a point to all this?" demanded Shaundi.

"Oh, yes. There's a point. I'm not going to kill you, Shaundi. I'm going to _break _you. When people ask who started the feud that killed their buddy, people will answer 'Shaundi. You know, Viola's bitch.' What's going to happen is, at some point, you're going to come out of this room into the main penthouse. Everyone will be watching; your friends, _my _friends, anyone who wants a seat. I'm going to hitch down my panties and you are going to _kiss my ass. _My victory will be complete."

"You're crazy, Vi," said Shaundi. "If you ever think that's going to happen, you're crazy."

"You have no idea how crazy I am," said Viola. "In a week, you'll be _begging _to kiss my ass." But her words were interrupted by a sound from downstairs. She suddenly pricked her ears up, and reached for the pistol on her hip. "What the hell is going on?"

* * *

><p>The Luchadores were already amassing outside the Saints' headquarters when the boss and the others arrived. They were shocked when they saw Johnny Tag, but most remembered the news reports from when he had broken out, and were more impressed by the cloning than terrified. By the time the boss arrived, they had already killed the sentries guarding the front entrance, the loud shots from which alerted Viola upstairs.<p>

"You started without me!" said the boss, annoyed.

"Hey, we're with you, man," said Weyland, "but we're fuckin' Luchadores. We do things our way!"

"Fair enough," he replied, grinning and grabbing the AR-40 Weyland had given him. "There's two ways in, the underground garage and the front door. Go to the garage, take the lift up to the first floor. We'll regroup there." He turned to face the Luchadores that were following him through the front. "Don't start firing until either they do, or I give the word. I'm hoping we can negotiate. Are we ready?"

"Yeah!" was the chorus that rang out. In a massive, solid line, they stormed into the front. The defenders had heard the shots and were not taken by surprise. They had their guns trained on the door, expecting to see Luchadores, and ready to open fire. Instead, they saw the boss.

"What the…?" asked one of the Saints nearest the doors. He nearly dropped his gun in surprise. "What the fuck are you doing here? With the fucking Luchadores?"

"I'm back, Mikey," said the boss. He didn't always have a knack for remembering the names of his soliders, but Mikey Angelisti was one of the first new members from Steelport. Knowing someone's name always gave you that personal touch. "Viola had me deported so she could take over."

"Holy shit," said Jesũs Velasquez, another man, this time from Stillwater. "You're kidding!"

"I never kid, Jesũs," said the boss, lowering his weapon. "I spent weeks in an English prison. But I broke out, and now I'm back." He stepped forward. "I know you've got your orders. But Viola was never your leader. She was a _usurper. _I learned that word in the nick. Sometimes, there's nothing better to do than plan your escape and read a dictionary."

"Too right we got our fuckin' orders," said another man, who the boss did not recognise. He could have been one of his newer recruits, or one of Viola's. The unknown Saint raised his gun in a threatening manner. Jesũs, springing into action, wrestled it out of his grasp.

"Fuck's the matter with you? This guy's our _leader._"

"He ain't my leader," said another man in the crowd. "Viola's my leader!"

"Yeah!" was the resounding opinion from several of the men in the back of the crowd. Some of the soldiers from the first floor had come down to participate in this high-emotion standoff, uneasily looking from the boss to the Luchadores.

"That's as maybe," said the boss, with enforced casualness. "Mikey, I need to get a word across. Not just to these guys here. Does the intercom work between the floors?"

"Sure, boss," said the Saint. "All you have to do is change the frequency to broadcast all over the building. I'll do it." He moved through a door, followed by the boss, that led to the far side of the lobby. The Luchadores stayed put, and so did the undecided Saints. The two armies kept guns on each other, but no one would dare pull a trigger.

There was a security office in the room opposite. Mikey adjusted a few knobs on a microphone and handed it to the boss. There really wasn't room for anything other than the best, here; if he stammered, or made a poor choice of words, it could set off the fighting in the other room, and bring the remaining Saints downstairs to finish off him, Johnny and the others.

"Hello, Saints," he said, and Mikey nodded. "Yeah, it's my voice you're hearing. I know it's been a while, but you all remember my voice, don'cha? I'm downstairs. I know there's been some crazy rumours going around over what's happened to me. That I'm dead. That I've been grabbed by the enemy. That I've been grabbed by the Old Bill. I'm sure there's a load of Chinese whispers about it. The fact is…." he paused, unsure of how to continue. "The fact is, those of you that heard Viola was responsible for my disappearance, then you're right. She had me arrested by British police. I only just broke out. I know that most of you, when you heard that, you didn't believe it, or thought it was the other side telling lies. If you had a doubt and you still stuck with Viola, then that' okay. I forgive you."

He paused again, knowing that he needed something deeper to bring the Saints around. "As all of you know, I've been in this gang since pretty much the beginning. Back when it was Julius Little, running around and protecting people against the gangsters. I've seen us grow into something so much more. The Saints aren't some poky little crew from a Godforsaken corner of the Midwest. We're a bad ass motherfuckin' army who can do anything we want. D'ya know what I felt when I 'eard this little war had erupted? I felt _sad. _I wanted to think of the Saints as more than that. A team where blood was thicker than water." He shook his head, as if everyone could see him. "But there's a good side of all the fighting. All the hatred. A lot of you have been wonderin' about our priorities recently. Johnny Gat did. I did, to an extent. Shaundi, if you can hear me now, I know you did as well. Somewhere, in the last few months, we've crossed that fine line between the powerful gangsters who can do anything to the _famous _gangsters who become more and more like media whores everyday. I 'onestly reckon we've been refreshed by this. It's made us grow. We've coped with fame and we've coped with people who tried to rule your lives. And I bet…I bet more than anythin' that those of you who have been with Viola for the last few weeks have started to hate turning into some sort of army. We _ain't _an army. Ultimately, we're friends. Sure, there's a hierarchy, and we're always gonna be making money, but seriously. Look to the bloke on your right. Or the girl. Aren't they your mate? Aren't you friends, even after all of this?"

He knew it was the right time to make his main point. "I'm comin' upstairs now. Whoever's with me is gonna come up with me. Also here are the Luchadores. They're not here to fight you. They're only with us because they're more under threat than anyone. Once this is over, we can start anew with them. Become _friends. _Or enemies, but at least _worthy _enemies. There's one more man with us, and some of you might be surprised to see him. He's not Johnny Gat yet, but he will be. Thanks to a genius scientist who's the truest Saint I've ever known, he will be. If you've been touched by what I've said, come an' greet us with open arms. If you can't do that, fair enough, but you're our enemy. Die like you were always supposed to, _with honour._"

He switched off the microphone. That was enough. He turned to Mikey, who was still listening in rapt attention. When the boss put down the mic, he made a single clap.

"Cheers, mate," he said. And was about to turn around when he heard it again. He looked at Mikey's hands, but they hadn't moved that time. He heard it again, and again, getting louder and faster. He opened the door and _everyone _in the lobby was clapping him. The single claps got more frequent until the entire floor, both Saints and Luchadores, were joined in applause. The crowd had grown considerably; several of the other floors had obviously taken the elevator right down to him.

"Jesus, lads," he said, "you'll start me tearing up in a bit." He grinned as the applause subsided, and the troops faced him, ready for instructions. Many hadn't come down, but many had. He called Weyland the Luchador and Mikey over to him.

"We're gonna do this, lads," he said, in fight mode. "Me, Tag, and my friends are gonna take the lift to the penthouse and rescue Shaundi." Turning to the Lucador, he asked, "do you think your boys are fit enough to climb a lot of stairs? We need someone to sweep to the top, picking up anyone who wants to join us. If any hold out, we need them taken out. Dead or alive. We can't afford a counterattack by loyalists. Mikey, we'll send the elevator down as soon as we get up. Fit as many Saints into the elevator as you can. You'll need a few trips."

"Got it," said the lieutenant. The boss gestured for Johnny Tag, Jimmy, Jamal, Kinzie and several of the Luchadores to join him in the first lift to the top. Each of them had a rifle, with the exception of Tag, whose fists were a perfect weapon.

None of them spoke as they made the slow journey to the top of the building. They had their guns at the ready, in case an immediate firefight greeted them as they got to the top. After several minutes, they stopped.

"This ain't the penthouse," said the boss, panicking slightly. "This is the next floor down."

"Try pressing it again," said Kinzie. She did it herself, and the lift wouldn't go up. Or down.

"They've jammed it," Kinzie said. "We can just take the-"

The next second was an absolute blur. Without warning, the lift doors had slid open, but the first thing they saw was not the oddly garish wallpaper that covered the saloon room directly below the penthouse suite. It was a rarely used floor due to said penthouse being a much more glamorous place to relax. It was normally only used as sleeping quarters.

No, what they saw first were three heavily armoured men pointing guns at the lift door. Their armour was dark purple, Viola's colour, and one look at their Kevlar and rifles told the boss these were elite.

Unfortunately, the reflexes of these heavies were a lot faster than his or his friends. They had been waiting for the door to open, and their orders were to fire as soon as flesh presented itself. The rifles roared violently as they sprayed bullets into the lift. The boss put his hands up to his face, knowing death was imminent.


	13. Chapter 13: The End of All Things

**Chapter 13**

The rebels were lucky.

Luckier, the boss would later think, than any of them would ever know.

Viola was in the habit of training men she would trust with such heavy-duty equipment to a fine point. Part of the training such elites would follow included targeting strategy. Lesson one in this pointedly brief curriculum was, if presented with several targets, always fire at the largest one first. It was a tactic that had started, incredibly, with the Napoleonic war, where the general would wear the most striking (and tall) headgear. If you shot the general first, his troops would be instantly demoralised, and would not fight back while you shot them to pieces.

Luckily for the boss and his friends, innate training had kicked in before common sense for these men. For the larger target they aimed for was the gargantuan Johnny Tag. Tag, as would be expected, did what any man (well, clone) of his size and body mass would do when shot once with a high power rifle; he shrugged the bullets off, the only change to his demeanour being a surge of rage. Before the heavies could direct their fire to the boss and the others, Tag had thrown an army, sending them sprawling against the wall behind. Those inside the lift sprayed them with rifle fire before they could get up, and the Kevlar only withstood so many shots. The three were dead before their bodies even settled.

Tag and the others filed out of the lift into the short corridor imposed by the dividing wall between the main room and the lifts. If the saloon room had been designed the same as the penthouse, with the lift doors exposed to the main room, they would be dead. But because they could see out each side of the dividing wall into the main, he could see the red beam of the sniper rifles before blindly stepping out. There were around five rifles pointed at each side of the divide.

"Shit, we're pinned down," he said to the others. "Anyone know who's in charge up here?"

But he didn't have to wait for an answer. An all-too-familiar voice came from the other side of the room, and if the acoustics weren't betraying him, its source was standing in the middle of the snipers.

"Sorry-boss," sang Zimos. "This-is-just-the-way-it's-gotta-be. Guy-can't-defect-twice-ya-know."

"You're making a mistake, Z," he shouted over the dividing wall in response. But a fear came over him at the same time. He knew there was no way to send in reinforcements with the elevator stuck, and there was no way to beat the snipers without knowing what they were dealing with. Before any of his crew could protest, he stuck a head out just enough to see the set up on the other side of the room. One of the snipers spotted him and fired, but by the time the man's reflexes had adjusted, the boss was safely behind the dividing wall again.

In the nanosecond he had held his head out, he had mentally registered all he needed to. The snipers were in the best vantage point in the room, a raised platform near the far wall that allowed guests, in past times, to look out over the dance floor. Zimos was standing directly in the middle of them.

"Don't let Tag get out there," he whispered to Kinzie. "Those are McManus rifles. Couple of shots from them and even he'll be cut in half."

"We killed your lads waiting to ambush us, Zimos," the boss called out again. "This is stalemate, sunshine!"

"You'd-think-so-but-no," sang the pimp in return. "The-boys-are-rallyin'-down-below. Couple-of-minutes-they'll-be-up-here!"

Shit. The boss had not expected that. With ten snipers, he could wait until they got tired and their reflexes stiffened up enough for him and the others to get a pot shot at them from the edge of the dividing wall. But more shooters? They could never win against a whole army.

"When they come," he said to the others, whispering to avoid Zimos hearing him on the other side, "take out as many as you can. I don' fink we're gonna survive this, but we can die like Saints." He turned to the side of the divide nearest the stairwell, but he couldn't get a clear view. "It's been a pleasure serving with you all."

Within less than a minute, he heard a large number of footsteps. It sounded like the entire reserve of Viola loyalists were here to make their final stand. He saw a brief flash of dark purple as the Saints filed into the middle of the room. He couldn't see them yet, but he knew they would be the last thing he would ever see.

"What-the-hell?" demanded Zimos. "What's-with-all-the-blood? You-guys-been-in-a-fight-already?"

"Yup," came a strangely familiar response. "This makes second."

For the next five seconds, all the boss could hear was the sound of gunfire. But the gunfire wasn't been directed at him or the others behind the divide. One by one, the red beams disappeared as the sniper rifles got cast to the ground.

It was Jamal who came out first, excited. The boss followed him. The large number of men in the room were Saints….but they were the biggest-looking Saints he had ever seen.

"Hey," said the one that spoke before, and the boss immediately recognised him. Weyland. The Saints' uniform barely fit him, and it was splattered with blood.

"We heard the gunfire from the stairwell," he explained. "We thought we'd run straight up. We ran into a bunch of guys looking to help these snipers out, so we jacked their outfits and thought we'd get the jump on them. Clever, huh?"

"Unbelievably," said the boss, grinning with appreciation. "But there's one last thing we need to sort out."

He crossed the room to where Zimos was lying, bloodied. He had fallen from the platform and was barely alive.

"N-nothin' personal, boss," said Zimos, in a horrible rasp. His tracheal microphone had nearly broken, and the boss imagined the sound he was making was halfway between that and his real voice.

"I know, old friend," he replied, before shooting the pimp in the temple. Zimos didn't go violently, or shudder, or do that horrible jerking movement corpses do when he slumped. He just seemed peaceful. The boss dropped his rifle and turned away from the others.

"We, uh, need to move, boss," said Jamal, uneasily.

"Yeah," he said, but his voice came out choked. He composed himself, and picked up his gun. "Okay, you lot…I don't know what's gonna greet us when we climb that last lot of stairs. Keep focus. Okay?"

"Okay," said Jimmy first, but he looked terrified. From when Zimos's thugs had greeted with the business end of their rifles, he had been scared. The boss knew what it was; it was the first time the adrenalin had worn off and he'd started to consider the possibility that he could die here. It was getting past that phase that made someone a Saint.

The next minute played out like the type of Stallone video nasty the boss had seen as a kid. The last remainders of Viola's forces were waiting for them almost as they looked up the stairwell. In what seemed like ultra-slow motion, they fought their way up the stairs, rifles firing insanely. There were about five soldiers at the top of the stairs, on the corridor just before the main penthouse suite. The boss raced forward and brained the first one with the butt of his rifle. Jimmy, of all people, shot the next one, with a bullet that went straight into his eye. It was an amazing shot, seeing as there was only a thin slit on his mask for an eye hole. Jamal, to his credit, was firing his rifle wildly, in a way that reminded the boss of Tony Montana.

When they were finished with this gang, the boss looked around. Kinzie, Jamal, Jimmy and Tag were alive. But some of the Luchadores had fallen in the final push. He hadn't noticed them in the heat of battle, and he felt regret for that. Their comerades were miserably trying to revive them. Weyland was alive, but he had been shot in the elbow, and was dripping blood.

"Okay, everyone," the boss called, fiercely. "This is it."

He charged through the door and reached for his rifle. But instead of an army waiting for him, there were only two figures that caught his attention. On the other side of the room, Pierce, Matt, Oleg and several other Saints were tied to chairs. Oleg's chair was huge.

"Stop right there!" hissed Viola. The figure in front of her was Shaundi, and Viola had a Desert Eagle pointed at her temple. "You move one more step forward, and I blow her brains out."

The boss stayed put. "Hello, Vi. Miss me, sweetheart?"

"It's way too late to talk about this," she replied.

"Hi, Shaundi," the boss said brightly, turning his attention and ignoring Viola. "Hi, everyone."

"Shoot her, boss," said Shaundi. "Don't worry about me. Drill that bitch's head through."

"Why'd you do it, Viola?" said the boss. His voice had turned an icy cold. "You had everything with us. I helped you avenge your sister. I saved your life on that statue."

"Can any of his have anything?" she replied.

"Fair point," he said. While they had been talking, the remainder of the rebels had crossed the threshold. There were now many guns trained on Viola and her captive. "You know there's nothing you can do here. Your arm will get tired soon, Shaundi will escape and we'll shoot you to bits. You have to see there's no way out of this."

"I want a chopper," said Viola, her voice suddenly desperate. "I wanna get out of here. I'm taking Shaundi with me to make sure you don't try anything. I'll drop her off on the roof over there."

"You've seen Dog Day Afternoon, Vi. You know what we'll do."

"Then…then I'll leave Shaundi here, just give me a chopper and take off."

"We'd shoot it down as soon as you got a few feet away," said the boss, this time softly. "You know how this works out. I wouldn't ever want to kill you, but we can't let you live. You'd come back and take your revenge. You know this."

"I-I don't…"

"It's over, Viola," the boss said, a little sadly. "You did well, but it's over."

Viola looked utterly trapped. She scanned around the room and saw that all the odds were against her. She'd sent the last of her men to head the rebels off at the stairs, and that had been a gambit that failed.

"C-can I see you outside?" she asked the boss. "On the helipad? I'll let Shaundi go." There was something utterly resigned in her voice, and she was no longer a strong leader. She was _scared._

"Okay," he said, cautiously. "Of course you can. No sudden moves, though, Vi. Understood?"

She nodded, and made the slow motion of releasing Shaundi from her grasp. Shaundi ran forward and, uncharacteristically, hugged the boss. She joined him in facing Viola, who was now alone. She carefully put down her Desert Eagle. "Can we go outside? Just you and me?"

"Of course," said the boss. He gestured for the others to calm down. "It's okay, guys. It's okay."

"D'you want me to come with you?" said Jamal, nervously. "_Can _I come with you?"

"This is me and Viola at this point," said the boss. The two of them walked out onto the helipad. Shaundi and the Luchadores followed them and stared at the two of them from the window as they crossed the pool bar and stood on the helipad. Jamal and Jimmy went to untie the others.

"I'll talk," said the boss, shivering slightly at the bracing air at the top of the skyscraper. "D'ya know what I would have done if it wasn't for the others If it was just you and me leading this gang and you pulled this?"

"What?"

"Walked away," he said, his words true. "Or agreed to hand the reins over to you while still being in the gang. Oh, I would have escaped from that poxy prison either way, and I'd make sure I didn't end up out of pocket, but if I genuinely came back and saw you'd taken the Saints in better places than I could, I'd be more than happy to step down. You have to understand…I might hate you for what you did, but I respect it."

"Thanks," she said, weakly.

"But if I let you win, you'd get rid of Shaundi, and make the lives of the others miserable. And I care too much about them to let you do that."

"Actually, I was going to make Shaundi my slave," she said, "but that's beside the point. Thank you for sharing that. And if it helps, I've always respected you. This little power struggle was nothing to do with any failure you had as a leader."

"I understand," he said. "People in history used to do it all the time. You like history, don't you? It's all full of plots and the like."

"Your own history, especially," said Viola. "English history, I mean."

"I remember it well from school," said the boss. "Sometimes, a noble would plot against the king."

"And if it failed, they wanted to keep the honour of their family," said Viola. "Make sure they got remembered as a worthy enemy of the king instead of a traitor who took a cheap shot. So, you know what they'd do? They'd climb to the top of their castles. They'd look out over the…what were they called…battlements. Then they'd shout 'God save the king!' and jump to their deaths. It was a good system. Dignified."

"That was a good break," said the boss. "A nice deal."

Viola smiled. "You've seen Godfather 2 as well, huh?"

The boss smiled and nodded. "It's…it's been emotional, Vi."

She nodded. "God save the King."

And she leapt off the edge of the helipad.


	14. Chapter 14: Epilogue

**Chapter 14: Epilogue**

The first hour of the party had been devoted to storytelling.

The boss told Shaundi, Pierce, Oleg and Matt about what had happened from when he and Jamal touched down, explaining why half of their party guests were the hated Luchadores. Looking at the two gangs openly expressing their friendship, the boss wondered if it truly was peace in Steelport. Of course, there were those on the fringe, both Morningstar, Deckers and Luchadores, but there would always be conflict where the Saints were concerned.

Jamal shared some jokes at the boss's expense about their time in prison, and the big guy laughed, jokingly threatening to strangle his apprentice. Life was good. The youngster was ingratiating himself well into the group. Pierce sealed the vote of confidence by slapping Jamal on the back and saying "man, this kid cracks me up" to the boss.

Once the jokes had been exchanged, talk shifted to plans of action. Thanks to the fighting, the reactor was in need of repair, and the HQ was awash with blood. Thinking of this forced the boss to think about all the deaths that had occurred during the war. The Saints were going to be on the up and up again, but they had paid a cost in blood.

"You okay?" asked Shaundi, looking up and seeing that he was distracted from the conversation.

"I'm fine," he replied, gulping his champagne. He took a brief scan of the party again. The only people not having a good time were Kinzie and Matt, who were locked into an argument over who was going to be whose boss in the Saints' tech department. He was sure neither had ever thought they would be on the same side as the other.

"Oh, wow, is that eleven?" said Jimmy suddenly, breaking his concentration. "I gotta get home, my mom's gonna kill me."

"Thas' alright, Jim," he said, shaking the teenager's hand. "You free tomorrow? We could use some help with the cleanup. Then we'll just be chilling in the penthouse afterwards."

"You mean it?" said Jimmy, his eyes wide. "You'd let me chill in the penthouse again?"

"Of course," said the boss. "After all, you're a Saint now."

"_I am?"_

"You didn't tell him?" Pierce asked the boss, raising an eyebrow.

"Slipped my mind. Yeah, Jim, you're one of us." He turned to Jamal. "You too, Scarface. I'll have to teach you how to fire a gun properly, though!"

Jamal grinned. Pierce slapped him on the back again and turned to the lift. "Hey, Donnie! You leavin' as well?"

Donnie Strauss turned around. "Yeah, I gotta go meet my buddy," he said, pressing the button. "I won't be long."

"Hurry back, motherfucker," said Pierce, smiling and waving him off.

Donnie took the lift to the lobby and headed out of the building. He walked two blocks until he reached an alley. Standing in the darkness, he searched around to ensure he was completely alone. When he was satisfied, he dialled a number.

"It's over," he said as soon as the receiver picked up. "Viola DeWynter lost. You were right to monitor the situation. They're as weak as they ever were now."

"Good," said the voice on the other end of the line. "I'll tell the committee tomorrow. It's time to authorise Operation King Snake."

**END**

_A/N: So, the end is here. I'd like to thank both CertainUncertainty and HeartWritingM for your reviews! With an added thank you to CertainUncertainty because this would have been a deadfic without your input. There will be a sequel, as of the end, but I can't really give an ETA for the first chapter._


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